


Bottom of the River

by Legs (InsanityRule)



Category: The Devil All the Time (2020)
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Ambiguous Ages, M/M, Some Period Typical Attitudes, draft dodging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-02
Updated: 2020-11-11
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:15:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 24,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26761222
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsanityRule/pseuds/Legs
Summary: He skip-walks across the cracked walkway leading from the church to his modest little single story home on the north end of the church's land. And it's there that he finds a figure huddled under the narrow awning above the front door. A jumpy young thing, pale and shivering and soaked right through."The church is a hundred feet from the road," he shouts over the wind, "but bless your soul, boy, I find you all the way back here at my door."Something's struck the young man dumb, as talkative as a babe left in a basket. As he nears Preston checks his chest for a water-logged note pinned to his dirty white tee shirt, expecting he's some sort of overgrown abandoned child."Lord," he looks to the sky through his umbrella, "just what have you sent my way?"
Relationships: Arvin Russell/Preston Teagardin
Comments: 5
Kudos: 35





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This started forming in my head before I properly watched the film, and then I took matters into my own hands in the form of an AU so removed from the canon it might as well be an original story. Alternatively, I wish this was the movie instead, so here you go.

It's raining.

It's the kind of rain just shy of torrential, the kind that used to dribble in through the cracks in his old parsonage a few towns back. The kind that's dribbling through the church roof now, but just a drip or two, nothing to call home about. Preston, the Reverend Teagardin, grimaces up at the water spot as he slides a tin bucket underneath. It'll patch, and then it'll hold until the next storm when another leak blesses him with its presence.

The congregation could do with a guiding word during the next sermon. A town flushed enough to have plumbing in ninety percent of homes can afford to tithe a little more generously.

Preston turns down the modest building and unfurls his still-soaking umbrella just inside the entryway. Praise the Lord, his current dwelling isn't riddled with holes. He doesn't bother locking the church doors; may the Lord have mercy on any poor soul stupid enough to break into a small town church. He wouldn't have to stoke the fire in the members' hearts. By the time he got to them they'd be in a righteous frenzy.

He skip-walks across the cracked walkway leading from the church to his modest little single story home on the north end of the church's land. And it's there that he finds a figure huddled under the narrow awning above the front door. A jumpy young thing, pale and shivering and soaked right through.

"The church is a hundred feet from the road," he shouts over the wind, "but bless your soul, boy, I find you all the way back here at my door."

Something's struck the young man dumb, as talkative as a babe left in a basket. As he nears Preston checks his chest for a water-logged note pinned to his dirty white tee shirt, expecting he's some sort of overgrown abandoned child.

"Lord," he looks to the sky through his umbrella, "just what have you sent my way?"

"Um," the boy reaches up, still huddled over, and scratches his cheek, "Arvin."

"And he speaks!" Preston proclaims. He claps a hand on the boy's sodden shoulder and turns him towards the door. "Let's do this under a roof, now, Marvin? ("Arvin.") Right, of course. _Arvin_. You have the God-given sense to hold this over my head?" He hands off the umbrella, and Arvin fumbles with it but holds steady enough. Preston opens the door for himself and steps inside to avoid the rain, and Arvin is quick to follow, dropping the now-closed umbrella in the corner by the door.

"Why don't we get you into something dry," he mutters, eyeing the boy's frame. "Now," he pauses and takes a step back, hand rubbing across his mouth, "now, Arvin -"

"Preacher."

"Or Reverend," Preston offers. "Or whatever you like, boy. Preston Teagardin." ("Yes, sir.") His offered hand is not shook, and he pulls it back to slip it into his pocket. "Right. Now, I will be inquiring about what exactly brought you here," Arvin nods, ducking his head shyly, "but why don't we start with warming you up and getting some of this mud off your person. Shower," he orders, jerking a thumb over his shoulder, "unless whatever sin has brought you here cannot wait."

"It can wait," he says, half a whisper at most. He shivers again, and sends water flying around him, a water-logged puppy brought in from the rain.

"I thought it might," Preston says to himself. "Go on," he sends the boy across the room, "and leave those clothes on the floor," he adds. "I'll find something," he quiets as the door shuts. "I'll find something."

-

Preston finds a set of flannel pajamas buried in the bottom of his dresser and an undershirt in case his guest runs hot. He barges in, proclaiming himself successful in his search and insisting Arvin take his time getting the chill out of his bones.

And he waits, mulling things over a finger of bourbon, but finding himself far more interested in the way the liquid swirls in the bottom of his glass. He can't build this house with so few bricks. Arvin's going to need to offer up some details before he formulates his next move.

Arvin stumbles from the bathroom a full half-hour later, cheeks pinked from the heat and water dripping from the ends of his hair. He's playing with the too-long sleeves of the unbuttoned flannel, and chewing the hell out of his poor lower lip.

"Is this the behavior of a man afraid to confess his sins?" Preston says, stopping Arvin in his tracks. "Sit," he gestures to his left, and Arvin does. "Tell me why I found you on my doorstep, Arvin."

Arvin thrusts a hand into the pocket of his borrowed sleep pants and pulls out a crumpled letter, offering it up to Preston with a shaky hand. Preston takes it gladly, and smooths it across his lap until he can read it clear enough through the creases.

“Caught by the draft,” Preston says. He looks to Arvin, noting the way he’s picking at the skin around his nails. “Looking to dodge your call to arms, Arvin Russel?”

“The Lord,” he starts, huffs around a weak cough, and starts again, “the Lord doesn’t like war-”

“Boy,” Preston stops him, “why don’t you stop with this pitiful display. The Lord knows you’re trying to use Him,” he explains. Arvin’s cheeks darken with shame. “Why don’t you try telling me again, and do yourself a favor and tell the truth for the sake of your soul.”

“I’m breaking a cycle,” Arvin says cryptically, gaze a million miles away. He blinks, and looks Preston dead in the eye. “All I know is I can’t go.”

"Way I've seen it boys your age can't wait to pick up a rifle to do their patriotic duty."

"My daddy was in the war," is Arvin's only other offering, and he clams up tight after the declaration. Preston watches him wrestle with something for a few beats, and all the fight drains right out of him and puddles on the floor.

Preston taps two fingers on the letter. "Coal Creek, is it?"

"You know Coal Creek?" Arvin perks up, buoyed by the possible recognition.

"I know of it," Preston corrects him. "Led a congregation near there a few years back." He clears his throat. "Enough to know it's nearly two hours from here by car."

"I hitched," Arvin explains, "and when they wouldn't take me any farther I walked."

"Explains the state of your clothes," Preston murmurs. "I just wonder why the Lord would steer you so far from home." Arvin's eyes get a particular, pretty sheen to them, begging Preston not to press. "Seems to me he led you an awful long way for some guidance."

"Guidance?"

"Is that not your intention?" he asks. "A young man seeking the wisdom of a man of God?” He takes a contemplative sip of his bourbon, eyeing Arvin over the rim of the glass. “Unless our little town is just a stopover.”

“I was gonna sleep on a pew,” Arvin admits. “I didn’t want to put anybody out.”

“Except the local pastor.”

“I was gonna use a pew!” Arvin insists, “But the church doesn’t have an awning, and the rain just kept on coming. And when I saw you walking over it was like I was frozen in place.”

“Well there’s no sense in agonizing, you’re here now,” Preston placates him with a hand on his knee. Arvin glances down at it cautiously, and decides to settle into the touch. “Why don’t we resume our talk in the morning when our minds are fresh. I’m afraid this humble sofa is all I have to offer you, but I’ll get my spare linens to set you up right.”

“You’re uh, wife won’t mind?”

“I am a man of God,” Preston says. “I’m afraid I’m not a man of anyone else.” He claps Arvin’s knee and gets up, draining the last of his bourbon and gesturing to the kitchen with a flourish. “The ladies of my congregation are mighty generous, so there’s plenty of offerings in the fridge. Far more than I can ever imbibe. Do them the honor of helping me finish them off if you get hungry.”

“Thank you.”

“You do right by yourself and thank the Lord, too,” Preston orders. Arvin squirms, but he bows his head and whispers a little prayer. “We’ll make a conscientious objector of you yet, boy.”

-

Preston takes a sip of his third finger of bourbon and flips open Arvin’s soggy wallet a second time. The first time he inspected the large pocket, noting the tiny ball of lint in the corner and lack of anything else. Now he’s fingering the boy’s ID, rubbing his thumb across Arvin’s startled expression.

He tosses the wallet onto his desk and leans back in his chair until he can see into the living room. Arvin’s twisted himself up in the simple sheet and comforter Preston provided. Every so often the boy’s face twitches and his legs jerk, sleep running like the puppy he is. Preston sits back up and finishes his bourbon, savoring the smoky flavor on his tongue. Tomorrow. He’ll glean some clarity tomorrow. For tonight, it’s about time he retired.

He opens the top drawer of his desk and tucks the wallet underneath some papers. Can’t have him slipping away before Preston is truly satisfied.

\---

He’s the first to rise with the sun. And glory be, what a wonderous sun they have this fine morning. A touch on the bright side for his sensitive eyes, though the promise of a cloud or two farther off in the distance gives him hope.

Arvin’s gotten himself right twisted overnight. He sleeps undisturbed as Preston throws together a simple breakfast; eggs from the McCoy’s ranch, bacon from the Macon’s no - the Fleming’s, the bread is from Macon’s grocers, which he toasts a shade too far. He spreads a hearty serving of butter on each slice to mute the taste.

It’s the coffee that summons Arvin, yawning and stumbly as he claims a chair at the modest two person table by the window. When a plate appears before him he murmurs a thanks and tucks in.

“Cream or sugar?”

“Sugar, thank you,” Arvin holds up two fingers, and Preston adds two heaping spoonfuls into the cup and gives it a good stir. Preston slides it in front of him, and Arvin picks it up and takes a long draw, eyes closing with pleasure. “Good coffee.”

“The congregation likes to show their appreciation,” Preston says coolly. He takes a drink of his own, humming lightly. “Bless these people, Arvin, and all their kindnesses.”

“It’s real nice,” Arvin agrees. “And thank you for letting me sleep here, Reverend. I about fabricated my own exemption, being out in the rain like I was.”

“Would have made it easier on yourself if you’d gotten a bad case of pneumonia, ruined those fresh lungs of yours,” Preston sighs. “I can’t imagine a doctor that wouldn’t deem you unfit. Still could, you know,” he says, taking a quick sip, and aborting it abruptly to add, “why, I know three in my congregation that could claim you got a bad break as a child. Left you with a nasty limp or a weak arm.”

Arvin shakes his head. “No, no _sir_. I’m not lying.”

“You were going to claim the Lord as your reason,” Preston accuses. “I don’t see shame for that, and I would argue,” he sighs, “that such a lie is a far greater sin.”

“But it’s _my_ lie!” Arvin snaps. He breathes heavy, and his knuckles creak when he relaxes his hand enough to drop his fork on the table. “It’s my sin alone. I won’t drag anyone down with me.”

Preston lets it lie, watching Arvin calm himself, fingers flexing and relaxing against his knees until he’s breathing easier. Even after, his leg jiggles anxiously, and he has a nervousness about him as he surveys the room.

“You uh,” he coughs, “you don’t happen to smoke, do you Reverend?”

“Certainly not,” Preston scoffs. “You know what that craving is, Arvin, that deep down urge?” He shakes his head. “Why, it’s the devil, boy. The surest way he has to corrupt your soul.” Preston gets up and rounds the table to stand behind Arvin. He puts both hands on his shoulders, giving them a steady squeeze as Arvin leans back in his chair. “Even now he’s slipping in through those cracks you gave him. Just one, he says. Just one more, but it won’t be just one, will it?” Arvin starts to protest, and Preston digs his thumbs in harder. Arvin groans. “But in a way, boy, it’s also the Lord, giving you a chance to make Him proud for withstanding the temptations before you.” He leans in real close to whisper in Arvin’s ear. “You want to make Him proud, don’t you? Want to prove yourself worthy of His love, worthy enough that He’ll help you avoid the war. You want to stay right where you are,” he says, letting his hand slip a centimeter closer to resting on Arvin’s chest. “I may have something for you here. Something the Lord would surely appreciate.”

“Um, I,” Arvin starts, and the spell is broken. He leans forward, chest curled over, and then he’s pushing his chair back, nearly pushing Preston over in his haste to leave the room. There’s a choked apology trailing after him, and Preston waits patiently until he hears the bathroom door close.

Preston chuckles, reaching over the chair to take Arvin’s coffee and take a drink. Yes, he has a few ideas for the boy.

-

Preston clears the table of their dishes and makes another pot of coffee, again adding Arvin’s preferred two sugars. He relocates to the living room, turning his armchair ninety degrees so he can watch the bathroom door.

Arvin’s cheeks are tinged with pink when he emerges. Preston hands the mug to Arvin without prying and he accepts, cradling it close to his chest as he situates himself among the blankets still strewn across the couch. He twists his body to the side to address Arvin face to face.

“There’s a leak in the church roof,” Preston explains. Arvin nods, accepting the offer to breeze past the little incident from before. “Would you consider yourself a handyman, Arvin?”

“Some,” Arvin says. “I’ve filled potholes and such. Blacktops. I don’t know if I can do a pretty job, but I can do it right.”

“Those are rather low to the ground skills, if I understand correctly.”

“I never patched one for a _job_ ,” Arvin says, “but I did fix the roof for my grandma back home. Never had any leaks after. I think I can fix the church, if you like.”

“The kindness of the Lord is unconditional,” Preston says, “but I personally would beseech you to offer up a little kindness of your own.”

-

It’s raining again.

Today’s service is under an hour away, and bless the boy his patch is holding. Arvin’s sitting there in the third pew, smiling up at his handiwork. It sure isn’t pretty, but Preston emptied the bucket for the last time yesterday afternoon.

“The Lord sure delivered by dropping you at my door,” Preston marvels.

“I think I did alright,” Arvin says. “How many free repairs do you think it takes to be a conscientious objector?”

“A lot more if you don’t come to the service.” Preston moves to sit in the pew in front of Arvin, then pivots on his heel and slides onto the seat beside him. “You have a peculiar way of approaching this goal of yours.”

“My sister was the religious one,” Arvin mumbles. He looks down at his hands, glances up at Preston, and bows his head again. He watches with interest as heat creeps up Arvin's cheeks.

"Feel free to speak," Preston says, leaning in, draping an arm across the back of the pew knowing Arvin will lean into it, "and be comforted knowing whatever you say will stay between you and I. And the Lord," he adds, "but He already knows what you're about to say."

"Lenora. My younger sister. Something happened," Arvin starts. And finishes, at least for a wet breath or two. "She wouldn't want me going off to war, killing any of God's creations."

"A young girl wise beyond her years," Preston assures Arvin. Just as he thought, Arvin leans back and into his arm. He looks up, wary eyes trained on Preston's face, looking for something he cannot find. "I may have another something for you to do."

Arvin clears his throat. When he speaks he's raspy, and won't look Preston in the eye. "What is it?"

"You see that?" He says, tipping Arvin's chin up to look at the water spot. He feels him swallow thickly. "The church has a modest budget for things of this nature. Why don't you go down to the hardware store and get us a little paint to touch that up with."

"I don't know if I'll be back before the service."

"Oh, I want that front and center for my sermon," Preston explains, "and let's see if we can't get a little more for that modest budget when the collection plate goes around."

\---

There’s never a proper discussion, but days come and go and Arvin continues to sleep on Preston’s couch and eat his food, and in return Preston continues to sip at his bourbon and point out things in need of a good fixing around the church grounds.

Arvin comes in sweat-slick and dirty one hot afternoon after a day in the gardens. He tugs up the hem of his shirt to use it to wipe his face, giving Preston an eyeful of his lean torso. Preston takes a contemplative drink of his iced tea as he takes in the view.

“I think I better shower,” Arvin says. “You have that ladies meeting tonight, right?”

“Every Tuesday,” Preston confirms. “C’mere,” he says, but he’s the one to get up and cross the room. “Think you got a little something,” he draws it out, running his thumb across a smear of mud on Arvin’s cheekbone, “right here. Got a very hands on quality about you.”

“Um.”

“Guess it makes up for that dumbstruck mouth of yours,” Preston mutters, giving Arvin's hat a playful flick to move it out of the way. And he kisses Arvin. Once, just the once, letting the stiffness leak out of the boy with a shaky exhale before he dares kiss him again. The second time, Arvin kisses back.

Arvin’s movements are clumsy even after the shock fades, and his lips are chapped and salty from the wind and blistering heat. It wouldn’t surprise Preston if the boy admitted to having been a true virgin when the day began. There’s so much to be said about the eagerness of a beginner.

“Wait,” Arvin whispers, pawing at Preston’s shirt buttons, his fingers getting snagged in the holes. “Wait, please -”

“What,” Preston breathes, watching the boy back up against the wall. Arvin sniffs wetly, eyes trained on the floor. "Now why are you crying those crocodile tears?"

Arvin sniffs again, and drags the back of his hand across his eyes. He shrugs, and does not deign to offer up an explanation.

"Has my very nature upset you?" Preston snaps, savoring the resulting flinch. "Waiting to see if God smites me where I stand?" he shouts. "Maybe he'll open up a hole straight to Hell and send me tumbling right down to the devil!" Preston throws his arms out wide, glaring up at the ceiling. "Well, Lord? Think it's about time we call it a day? Here I am, awaiting your final call."

He waits a few beats, then slowly drops his hands to his sides. When he drops his gaze he finds Arvin's red-rimmed eyes peeking up from under the brim of his beat up ball cap. "Boy, if the Lord sought fit to smite me for this we would have never met. I'd be dancing on coals years ago."

"You're a homosexual," Arvin says. Not unkindly, just putting a nifty little definitive on a string of obvious subtleties.

"Now don't that sound rather perfect to you?" Preston asks rhetorically. He crosses the kitchen to the cupboards and pulls out a glass; he explains himself as he's bent over filling it with iced tea from the fridge. "Does God not condemn those who would fall to temptation by the fairer sex, and here I am a man unable to tempt?"

"I don't know," Arvin says, "I'm not the religious one. Never read the Bible."

"Hm. I suppose that's fair." He taps the glass against Arvin's shoulder, and he takes it without looking and gives it a sip. "You about done with all this blubbering?”

Arvin clears his throat, “yeah, sorry.”

“Saints alive, boy. That was some display.” He shakes his head. Arvin keeps his focus on the iced tea in his hand. “You’d think you never even heard of kissing.”

“I heard of it,” Arvin insists, staring Preston down. Preston levels him with a look, and Arvin’s righteousness falters. “I haven’t gotten a lot of practice,” he admits reluctantly. “It was a lot.”

“Seems so.” Preston shakes his head. “Experience is a gift often taken for granted, and in a state of small towns you hail from some of the smallest. I can’t imagine your opportunities were plentiful, or worth the risk.”

“I, I’m not -”

“Ah,” Preston holds a finger up to Arvin’s lips, “why don’t you think on things. Let it ruminate a bit. Percolate. You come back to me once you’ve got yourself some answers.” He takes Arvin’s hat and shoos him off. “And go get in the shower. That living room is about to be full of ladies looking to condemn some satanic literature, and you looking like you’re in need of some mothering is going to distract their efforts.”

-

Arvin is a deer. One of those young, two point bucks venturing out for the first time after the spring thaw. A bundle of nerves with a hair trigger, ready to bolt at the slightest scent.

Preston never was much of a hunter. He prefers to play the role of the honeysuckle, a sweet temptation that, try as they might, a deer just can't stay away from. All he has to do is wait. One day. Two. It feels like no time at all when Arvin Russell shyly walks up to him while he's formulating his next sermon and tugs him down into a chaste little kiss, right there at the pulpit in front of a congregation of empty pews.

"Blessed day," he says, slapping the podium, "for the Lord has finally bestowed you with a spine."

"I'm no coward," Arvin snaps. He's ready to go off and have a proper pout if Preston lets him.

"Not on this day," Preston agrees. "And where do you think you're going?" He snags Arvin by the arm and drags him back over. "The Lord gave you a gift, boy. You wouldn't want it going to waste."

"What's going to waste?"

"Why, he's given you all you need to dodge that draft letter of yours within the confines of the law." Preston cups Arvin's cheek, smoothing away a bit of that tension making his jaw tremble. "Why don't you stop thinking so hard and let me show you how you can celebrate His gift."

-

Preston gets up off the bed long enough to switch on the small window unit air conditioner, sending pleasant, cool air into the room to counteract a balmy haze of their own making. He smirks down at Arvin across the bed who is, unlike Preston, buried beneath the sheets, duvet, and the homely but functional quilt he received from a member last winter. Arvin notices eventually, and redirects his petulant glare at the ceiling towards his current bedmate.

"Not that this has to be told to you," Preston tiptoes around the subject as he settles onto his side of the bed, "but things tend to be a bit more lengthy after you gain some experience.

"Consider it a blessing," he continues, "that you're getting to feel something so new and exciting. There's the beginning, the first little tendrils of heat," he says, humming appreciatively, "and the main event -"

"Stop it."

"Now, I don't mean _that_ particular part," Preston continues on, unbothered. "I'd consider that the end, for some obvious reasons. An end you reached with an abruptness characteristic of your youth."

"Shut up!" Arvin snarls at Preston before rolling away from him and onto his side.

"Now, no one told you this was a time for shame," Preston chides him. "And no one told you things needed to be under the covers when the top of the duvet will suffice. Or just about anywhere," Preston muses. "The Lord didn't grant the human race creativity only to see it stifled."

Arvin turns back slowly, no doubt aiming to soothe that confused, crinkled brow of his. "I thought there was something about modesty in the bible."

"Not that I recall, at least not for this," he chuckles. "The Lord never gave explicit instructions." He smooths Arvin's forehead with a brush of his fingers when it still hasn't settled. "Between you and me, I'd dare to say you enjoyed yourself."

"Maybe," he squirms, and settles deeper under the covers, looking to steal some time for a quick snooze. "Can't imagine you got anything out of it."

"You'll understand someday," Preston sighs wistfully. “There’s all kinds of pleasures in this world, boy. Sometimes the pleasure untaken is a pleasure all on its own.”

\---

Preston bears sole witness to a miraculous development blooming in Arvin. The wariness remains, Preston suspects it's always there to some degree, but the banter, praise the Lord he didn't expect the banter. Arvin is downright playful when given the opportunity.

"I think you should come to the service tomorrow," Preston says.

"Do you?" Arvin asks, smirking. He's settled in Preston's bed like he owns the place, languishing like a spoiled cat with a belly full of cream. "Think the Lord wants to see my sorry ass front and center?"

"Boy," Preston scolds, but the laughter getting dragged out of him might dampen the effect a touch, "I'm sure he'd love it if you shut your smart mouth," he rolls ever closer, crowding Arvin, breathing the same stale air, "or maybe you could put it to good use, and do a little worshipping of your own."

"Oh," Arvin breathes, eyes muggy and dark, pupils blown wide and unfocused. "I think you're suggesting," he hazards, "that I maybe worship you some."

"In your own way."

"Like maybe you think my good for nothing mouth might be good for something."

"Something has to be." He kisses Arvin, who despite Preston's best efforts has only marginally improved, but he makes up for it by being pliant, willing, and just a needy little monster now that he's being properly handled. "I think you'll go to the service tomorrow."

Arvin blinks up at him nice and slow. "That so?"

"It certainly is," Preston says, lips brushing Arvin's ear. He squirms, and Preston does it again. "I'll make it worth your while."

"Stop!"

"Such a sensitive young thing," Preston marvels, very much not doing as he's told. ("Gonna knee you _so_ hard.") "Behave!" he snaps, snatching Arvin's wrists and pinning them to the bed. He bucks once, testing Preston's grip, and settles, though his jaw clenches so hard it pops. "You'll go, and you'll be a good little churchgoer and make nice with the members of this congregation, and then maybe we'll continue where we left off.”

“Wh- wait a minute,” Arvin calls, but Preston’s off him and the bed before he realizes his hands are freed. “You’re gonna make me wait till tomorrow?”

Preston eyes the way Arvin’s already tenting his sleep pants, savoring the flush so bright and pretty from his cheeks down to his bare chest. “I think it’s about time you learned a little patience,” he says. “Besides, the ladies have been asking after you, and it’s getting awful difficult convincing them you’re busy doing work when you’re sleeping late in _my_ bed.”

“I thought you weren’t supposed to work on the sabbath,” Arvin says. “It’s right there in your fancy bible.”

“The sabbath is my most difficult day of work,” Preston counters.

“It’s the only day you work,” Arvin scoffs.

Preston snorts. “Well, I suppose you may be right.”

-

Preston schmoozes the congregation during the half hour prior to the service, cultivating a few little possibilities for himself later this week, all while keeping one eye trained on the church doors to catch Arvin’s arrival. Predictably, he does so in the last few seconds, after everyone is already seated and Preston is clearing his throat to demand his rightful attention behind the pulpit.

Arvin tucks his ball cap under one arm as he sits on the closest seat of the very last pew. He’s in his best tee shirt and a charming little denim tuxedo. The shirt is brick red and, somehow, the only one Arvin owns without a pit stain or a hole ripped in the side from catching a snag during his chores. And it’s a nice jean jacket, the only jacket the boy has that is strictly for looks given the lack of free movement in the shoulders. It cuts a nice figure with his only pair of unscuffed, unstained pants.

And all through the service he maintains this wary, cautious scanning of the crowd, like any one of ‘em could turn on him and pounce. Plenty of ladies are sparing him more than a passing glance, and Preston understands how tempting it must be to get a look at a young man they have seen but not heard, and even those sightings are a rarity.

“Help one another,” Preston projects, ensuring the whole congregation returns their attention to him and his good word. “That’s what the Lord tells us to do; help one another.” He nods, watching a few heads in the crowd do the same. “Help your friend, help your neighbor. Of course you’ll help your brother,” he smiles, “but what about a stranger? Yes, even help a stranger.” He pauses, catching a few key eyes in the congregation. “Now I know a good stranger is hard to come by in these parts,” he jokes. “You know somebody, or you know someone that knows somebody. But you know, this congregation has been given a gift,” he eyes Arvin, pinning him with his eyes right as he tenses to bolt. “We have our very own stranger. Arvin,” he says, gesturing, “the one you’ve all heard word of for ages, but he has eluded our attention until this very day. He’s a stranger, and all of you, starting today, you can help this stranger. Help him to become that neighbor, or that friend.”

“Now, though the church would love to do its part, I’m afraid the budget just wasn’t ready to replace our dearly departed Gus so quickly, and certainly not to the level of hard work this young man has put into this church. And I know,” he assures them, “I know times are hard. Times are tough, and we all tithe as much as we are able, but there are other ways to help,” he adds. “Why, Mrs. McCoy, you got a grown young man yourself. Freshly moved out with that lovely bride of his.” She smiles shyly, soaking up that attention Preston gives her. “I’m sure he’s left behind some clothes.” (“Several,” she jokes, flushing, giving this little titter of a laugh.) “I’m sure he has,” Preston smiles right back. “And you’ve all seen the good work he’s done because he is able, and he is willing, and because God told him to help a stranger,” Preston says, pointing up at the freshly painted spot on the ceiling that only days ago possessed an unsightly water stain. “So why don’t we follow a young man’s example, and help our fellow stranger. Amen.”

“Amen.”

“Amen,” Preston repeats, eyes locked with Arvin’s. “Go in his name.”

-

Preston kisses Arvin’s mouth, grimacing at the stony uncooperation he receives. He moves on to Arvin’s cheek, and his neck, feeling the curl of Arvin’s toes against his calves.

“What did you think of the sermon?” he asks between a few well placed nips across Arvin’s collarbone.

“You’re asking now?” Arvin sputters. “Like, _now_ now?”

“That an issue?” he asks, drawing a hand down Arvin’s chest and giving him a few teasing strokes. Arvin’s eyes roll back a bit before they close properly. Such a livewire, this boy; every nerve is alight with the simplest of touches. “C’mon, now. What did you think?”

“I thought,” Arvin sighs, “now, you can’t _do_ that when you’re wanting me to talk.”

“Can’t I?” He grips the underside of Arvin’s thigh and teases the pale skin there.

“No-oh,” he sighs again. “You _can’t_ ,” Arvin grumbles, leg kicking out half-heartedly, though when Preston does stop he falls into a full on pout. “I thought it might be about me,” he admits, frowning when Preston chuckles, “and then you kept going and it was definitely about me. I didn’t really like that.”

“You West Virginian boys and your pride,” Preston scolds. “Can’t accept a lick of charity even when you work yourself to the bone for it.”

“It ain’t that,” Arvin whispers. Preston slips off the bed and Arvin lunges for him, latching onto his wrist and giving him a tug. “Okay, it’s sort of that, fine, but it’s also _not_ , okay? Don’t go,” he whines. “I sat through the whole thing and I didn’t even complain.”

“You’re complaining now,” Preston points out, but he does sit, and when a bundle of limbs comes at him he lets Arvin have his way and kisses him. “What else is it then?” Arvin shakes his head. “C’mon now. Don’t you keep secrets.”

“They’re gonna start asking me out,” Arvin blurts out. “All the girls. They’ll convince their mommas to give me a job around the house so they can corner me by the shed and ask me on a date.”

“No one’s stopping you,” Preston says. “Plenty of nice girls around these parts.”

“I don’t think I’m what they really want,” Arvin says. “And I don’t,” he huffs, “I don’t want it either.”

Preston strokes a hand all the way from Arvin’s shoulder and down his back, settling on his hip. “It’s because you’re a mystery to them. Makes you interesting,” Preston says. “Open that mouth of yours and you’ll have them all running scared,” he teases, verbally and otherwise. “You’re looking a little unexcited, boy.”

“I don’t know if I’m good to go anymore,” Arvin admits.

“Alright now,” Preston lays Arvin down before him and soaks in the full display, “don’t you let those teenage girls scare you. They’re mostly harmless.” He bends over, starting at the spot just below Arvin’s ear and working his mouth down.

“Don’t talk about me in the sermon again,” Arvin demands. It loses some weight when he whimpers. “I mean it.”

"I'll consider it," Preston says, "but you can't imagine how a young, helpless thing can energize the mothers of a congregation. I suspect you'll change your tune by week's end."

-

Preston's little office finds itself the recipient of the most generous, if a bit confused, bit of charity the boy receives to date. He finds himself staring at the chunky bit of furniture, a cobbled together daybed with splintering wood and uneven staining, on the regular, with or without Arvin's dozing form draped across the covers. It wouldn't have killed them to find something a bit more stylish, like those modern looking things cropping up in the bigger cities. But the boy's rather taken with it, and the mothers rest easy knowing he's not still bunking on the couch, as if the sheets were more than show by the time they wedged the bed into the corner by the door.

There is something sedative about the boy tucked up all neat and tidy with his work boots by the foot of the bed, curled up underneath a quilt but lying on top of the sheets. Preston doesn't work as much as he watches the steady rise and fall of Arvin's back, contemplating going for a midday snooze himself when there's a series of knocks on the front door.

He tears himself away from his desk and strides to the door, opening it with a bright smile and a how do you do, ma'am to Mrs McCoy. She clucks and crows, fretting about something important, and Preston agrees to meet with her, that it's not an inconvenience to help one of those in need.

"My boy has a good heart, you know - oh, I didn't -"

Preston holds out a hand, whispering, "he rests during midday. Avoids the hottest part of the afternoon." ("Sensible boy.") "And I'm afraid my office was the only space large enough to keep that thing out of anyone's way. This way now," he ushers her back out his office door, "I just needed my ledger. We'll talk in the living room." He turns back to Arvin, catching the boy peeking over his shoulder at them. He sends him a wink, and Arvin smirks before rolling back towards the wall. "Can I get you an iced tea?"

-

Preston drops the ledger onto his desk and himself onto the foot of the bed, jostling Arvin awake. "I didn't realise you were asleep," he says.

"Just for a bit," Arvin says, wiping sleep from his half-lidded eyes. When Preston offers up his glass of iced tea he accepts it gladly, taking a large drink before handing it back with a thank you.

"How much of that did you hear?"

"Well, all of it that happened in the office," Arvin says, cheeky. "I couldn't really hear anything after you left the room."

"Hm," he contemplates the glass, and reaches out to set it on the corner of his desk. "Seems the second McCoy boy has gotten himself into a little trouble. His mother offered up a nice little donation for the church, and we're going to find him a little something he can do to help out and repent."

Arvin studies Preston critically, for what purpose he can not say. It takes him an age to ask, "you took her money?"

"I took a donation," Preston says.

"It sounds like a bribe," Arvin says. "She asked you to help her boy, and she paid you to do it."

"It's written - it's a _donation_!" Preston slides off the bed and snatches up the ledger, flipping to the current page and shoving it at Arvin. "See! Right there!" He points without looking. "Twenty dollar donation for the church upkeep fund."

"You do that a lot?" Arvin asks, words dripping with vitriol. "You tell these people you'll sweet talk the sheriff if they pay for new paint? Maybe they got you that nice car of yours, too. And all that fancy food."

"Boy -"

"You're taking _bribes_!"

"You shut your mouth!" He flexes his fingers, resisting a powerful urge to smack him. "I am accepting donations. Everything goes down in this book," he tosses the ledger at Arvin, pages fluttering until it lands more or less in his arms. He fumbles with it before righting the book and smoothing the new creases with his thumbnail. "Give it a look."

"What about skimming?" Arvin asks. "Maybe Mrs McCoy gave you thirty, not twenty. Cash sure is hard to keep track of."

"Saints alive!" Preston walks away a few steps, rubbing his mouth with his palm. He rounds back, seething. "Boy! I suggest you take a moment to remember you're claiming to be a conscientious objector when you don't even believe in God!"

"I do believe!" Arvin snaps. "Alright? I do! But I don't think he's listening, or if he is he ain't doing anything about what he's heard! So I learned to do things for myself!"

Preston heaves out a sigh. "Alright." He throws his hands up in surrender. "Alright, fine. You believe in God. How about you believe me too, hm? I'm not stealing from the church. Ever. Maybe I use a little creativity when I explain myself," he admits, "but it's all in there."

"What about that dollar you gave me?" Arvin flips the pages back and forth without really reading a damn thing. "That in here too?"

"Actually," Preston says, dropping onto the head of the bed and taking the ledger back. He flips to the page and points. "Right here. Called it a bonus for all that hard work. Even made a nice little note about considering you for hire." He snaps it shut. "Now, tell me what part of that is lying?"

Arvin picks at one of the little yarn ties on the quilt. He won't look at Preston, but he can feel the fight's all drained out of him. "So why do you do it?"

"Why don't I ask a couple questions and see if your answers give you some clarity." He leans in closer, voice barely a whisper. "What do you think happens when Second McCoy gets out of jail, if he were to go?"

"Um, I don't know."

"Think about it," Preston urges. "Boy likes his drink. Keeps finding himself at the bottom of a bottle every chance he gets."

Arvin shrugs. "So I guess he drinks when he gets out."

"And gets himself into another fight," Preston adds. "At least the town will get something nice out of it before he does. And all it cost was one nice donation for the church. It's twenty dollars her boy would no doubt piss away the first chance he gets."

Arvin sighs. "I don't like it. Something doesn't sit right."

"Doesn't sit right?" Preston sighs. "No one's being greedy. I will admit to living comfortably, but this ain't a mansion. I don't have staff."

"It's more than I've ever had," Arvin admits. "We got by, you know? Work wasn't always so plentiful. I couldn't always find it for more than a month." He looks at Preston then, and under all that wariness and confusion there's a bright little spot of hope. "I want to believe you. I like this work, and you, and maybe being able to start sending money to my grandma soon to help her out."

"Between you and me, we've been doing our own scraping by keeping things in working condition before you showed up." And to hammer the point home, he can't seem to resist. "You know all that nice work you've been doing around the church? Just where do you think the money for that comes from?"

He shrugs one shoulder. "Tithes, I guess."

"And donations," Preston says. "Now, how can that feel bad when you're making a house of the Lord look nice?"

"I don't know. Just does." He tips onto his side until he's draped across Preston's lap. "You don't do it for anything bad, right?"

"Explain," Preston says. He threads his fingers into Alvin's hair, giving his scalp a nice little massage.

"Like, the McCoy boy drinks, gets in little fights, but he's not," Arvin huffs, and rubs his cheek against Preston's knee. "It's not for anybody that does anything real bad, right? Just the embarrassing stuff?"

"That's a charming way of putting it," Preston teases. "It's nothing real bad," he assures Arvin. "Misdemeanors. Little incidents. One time one of the boys in the choir took his daddy's riding mower and decapitated old Miss Feeney's daffodils." Arvin sputters into laughter. "Embarrassing stuff. I like that."

"I guess it makes the members happy having the nicest church in town."

"They feel pride," Preston confirms. "Warms the heart."

They settle into something subdued, something quiet and calm and fleeting. Preston's eyes wander across the little table Arvin uses as a nightstand and hone in on a little clipping and some lined paper. "What do you have there?"

"Hm?" Arvin's head pops up, and he grabs the items from the table. "My grandma wrote me back. She's happy I found some work, and she's real happy it's for a church. She sent me this clipping out of one of those magazines of something she said might look nice for next year in the spring."

"Next year," Preston hums. "She doesn't know about your draft letter, does she."

Arvin's hand grips at Preston's knee, and he renews his efforts to soothe his fingers through his hair. "Couple of guys I graduated with got theirs around the same time. I told her I just got lucky. Didn't pull my number. Day later I left, and I wound up here."

"Trying to claim something you're not," Preston adds. "I don't know why you're still fighting the obvious answer. It wouldn't be a lie."

Arvin's quiet for a few wet, choppy breaths. "I give her enough to be ashamed about," Arvin says, sniffling, "and I don't want her dealing with it if I'm not there."

"Nothing to be ashamed about."

"But the others think so!" Arvin snaps up, red eyes defiant and angry. "They think so," he repeats quietly, "and I won't make her listen to her neighbors pity her because of me."

"You got a big heart, boy," he says. He kisses him, because he's all worked up and it feels like the right thing to do to disarm him. "A big, stupid heart."

"She doesn't deserve it."

"I know, I know," he shushes Arvin. "What is your dream scenario? Just what do you think is a win for Arvin Russell?"

"Well," he clears his throat, "I guess not going to war. Doing right by my uncle and grandma, sending them some extra money. I think I'd like staying here, and working for the church. Bigger town, better pay. Helps living here and not on my own."

"You're really settling in in this fantasy of yours."

"I guess so. I never really thought about what I wanted to do as long as it paid well." He shrugs. "The church is always a little different. Keeps it interesting. Good people, too."

"Good people," Preston murmurs. "I envy the simplicity of youth," he says, reaching out to ruffle his hair. "I'll tell you what," Preston leans forward, "why don't you go in the bedroom and get yourself all ready to make it up to me for all the nasty accusations thrown around today." Arvin rolls his eyes, but he's smirking. He'll do as he's told. "After we're done though, I want you to make a call and set up a meeting for me and your C.O." Arvin marvels at him, and he seals the deal with a kiss. "I'm not going to make any promises, but I'll see what I can do."

-

Turns out it's not the boy's C.O. proper coming by, but the captain in charge of the local office and his first lieutenant. Arvin is out in the gardens by design, digging out a couple of the old, rotting logs for a small retaining wall to replace them with some curved stones a hair too uneven to be sold on the shop floor down at the hardware store.

(He's good at that, finding these little ways to use something other people overlook and making it look like it belonged the whole time. He did the same thing just yesterday bartering down the price of some warped lumber to fence of a plot of land out back. He outdid himself convincing Miss Feeney she could use a little vegetable garden to teach the Sunday School kids about God's creation. Preston just welcomed the chance to cover up the fact that they're both abysmal cooks with fresh, flavorful ingredients.)

So it's surprising, knowing Arvin's careful consideration of details, that he overlooked mentioning that both the captain and lieutenant belong to Preston's congregation. He covers his surprise with a warm smile and a hearty handshake to the both of them before leaning back in his office chair.

"Thank you for taking time out of your day to come here," Preston says warmly. "I know you must be wondering why you're talking to me -"

"Reverend," the captain interrupts, "if it isn't too much trouble, we have a busy schedule. We would prefer you get to the point."

"Right," Preston huffs, clapping his hands together. "Arvin Russell is a conscientious objector."

The two military men share a look. It's the captain that asks, "that right?"

"He'd tell you himself, but I'm afraid he's rather preoccupied," Preston points out the window. "Hard worker. Very devoted."

"Reverend," the captain shakes his head, "no one's looking at the boy and claiming he's a bad worker."

"They'd be a fool," Preston interjects.

"The boy's been here three weeks," the captain says, "and missed two of the three services in that time. Never seen him at the bible study run by lieutenant Davis' wife."

"Boy gets nervous in crowds," Preston says. "He seeks out time with me for some private prayer and contemplation."

"Reverend," the captain sighs tiredly, "you have to understand we hear this every damn day, pardon the language." He clears his throat. "He's not the first nor will he be the last young man to try and dodge the draft. Cowardice brings out the worst in people."

Preston frowns at that. "You're suggesting his motives are insincere."

"What we're suggesting, Reverend," the captain says, "is that unless anyone in his old town can come forth with some evidence, or he's deemed unfit by other means, the boy's shipping out to basic by the week's end."

"Other means," Preston mutters under his breath. "Officers, a moment," he catches them mid-send off, and gestures for them both to sit. "This won't take more than a moment. I can say without a doubt the young man is unfit for service."

"Seems fit from here," the captain comments dryly.

"You'd be surprised. Now, don't fault the boy," he says quietly, "for he may not be a devout man of God, but he is a man's man, so to speak. A homosexual," he clarifies, keeping things somber. "Boy's worried about his grandmother hearing rumors. Now I know the two of you are honest, respectable characters," he assures them, "but there are wandering civilian eyes just waiting to snatch up a juicy detail to spread. People are much kinder to the faithful."

"Reverend," the captain laughs incredulously. "You have to know how this sounds."

"Like another excuse? I'm well aware." He glances out the window at Arvin, watching him wipe some sweat from his brow. "Now he hasn't told me this outright," he says, still watching, "but there are tales he's told. A few occasions too many to be a passing curiosity. Details he's reluctantly shared about certain… pleasantries. And I implore you both to try to consider the ramifications of his little secret getting out. Because that's what he's been considering.

"Being as he is," Preston continues, turning back to the men and their queasy looks, "I'm sure the imperative is he not serve."

"We'll," the captain sighs, and shakes his head. "We'll need Arvin to come down and sign forms declaring him unfit to serve. Might need to speak with the doctor to confirm."

"About that," Preston interjects before they can stand. "Seeing as the end result is the same, I don't see any harm in signing right here right now," he pauses, "as a conscientious objector."

"You're asking us to lie," the lieutenant snaps, before sitting back, cowed, adding a curt," sir," in apology.

"Despite the outburst," the captain says, side-eying the lieutenant, "you are asking military officials to forge official documents, Reverend."

"I'm suggesting we do the boy a little favor," Preston says quietly, "and maybe he'll do you some favors in return. Can't be more than a week before you both ship out. Think about your wives. Captain, your two girls don't even come up to your waist yet. And lieutenant," he turns to the younger man, "that baby of yours is having his first word without you. I think there's a comfort knowing there's somebody back here willing and able to help around the house should the need arise."

It's the lieutenant who clears his throat, waiting for his superior's nod before commenting. "Been having some trouble with the pipes."

"And our fence is in need of a mending," the captain adds. "I expect you're willing to add your own sin by lying for the boy."

"You let me worry about my soul," Preston says breezily. "And there's no need to drag him in here and get him all nervous. He's out by the front of the church. I'm sure he can drop what he's doing for a few moments of your time."

And that's that. Preston pours himself a hearty three fingers of bourbon and sips at it while he watches the men approach Arvin. He sees the moment they reveal the paper, and the next one when Arvin reads the important bits. Boy could blind somebody with that smile. There's a few pleasantries exchanged and then they're gone. Arvin watches them intently, and the moment their car is past the trees he's bolting for the house.

He stops in the doorway, leaning on the frame, panting away from his sprint to the office. "You did it," he sucks in a deeper breath and straightens. "I don't know what the hell you said, but I don't know how to thank you -"

"Arvin," he interrupts, "you're going to be helping out around their houses once those two men are shipped out." He takes a drink, and studies the way Arvin's expression softens from elation to that wary confusion. "If they try to pay you you'll refuse. Hide the money in the mailbox if you have to. If they offer up baked goods or hospitality?" Preston shrugs. "You're a smart young man. You'll make the right choice."

"I don't think I understand."

"I think you do," Preston presses, stepping closer until he's right up in Arvin's personal space. "You neglected to tell me the meeting I was having was with two members of my congregation," he says it so softly, so casually, but he can see Arvin's nerves alight. "Awful lucky of you to end up in the town with your reporting office. And at the church of your reporting officer. Don't." He tips his finger against Arvin's chin to shut his open mouth. "Don't you try to claim a damn thing. I know you aren't as stupid as you look, so don't act it."

"Preston, I," Arvin shakes his head. "I'll make it up to you."

This whole "Preston" business is new. There's a certain pleasure in the familiarity of it, got a nice feel in his ear. He'll let that one lie for now, see if it's just a one time thing.

He sighs, "I know you will."

\---

He takes a step back for a spell, sends the boy off to sleep in his own bed for a couple days while tempers cool. Arvin pouts like a kicked puppy, but he vacates Preston’s office in the mornings without being asked and busies himself with various projects far away from the house.

Preston finishes the bottle of bourbon that should have lasted him until the end of the month, and a fifth of his bottle he keeps for special occasions. It covers up that crawling feeling in his stomach with a churning upset in the mornings and a warm burn at night. Somehow he finds this preferable; the lesser of two demons.

There are decisions to be made, and considerations to have. He has all the pieces, and he'd give everything to toss a couple of the less desirables back in the box.

It's Arvin to make first contact, shuffling into Preston's office with his hat in hand. He sits on the day bed, scuffing the toe of his boot across the carpet while his mouth opens, closes, and opens again.

"Boy, I know I told you to ruminate -"

"I'm formulating," Arvin snaps. "You're always asking for time to pick your words."

"Fine," he throws up his hands. "Formulate away. When you're done I have something for you to sign."

"To, to what now?"

"To sign," Preston repeats. He gives the form one last look-over before handing it off. "Decided to hire you properly, assuming you weren't about to quit."

"I wasn't," Arvin says. He flicks his finger over the corner a few times, until he snatches his finger back and sticks it in his mouth. "It's not much," he says around the digit. "Could make a whole dollar more working for a company.”

"Had to factor in your living situation," Preston explains. "You'll never find a place cheap enough to make leaving worth it, so consider yourself fairly compensated."

"No, yeah," Arvin nods, "it's alright. Thank you. I can send some back home, at least."

"Here," Preston tosses him a pen, nodding to himself when Arvin signs with his messy signature. "You about done formulating, or should I move on with submitting this properly while you think?”

"I was going to apologize," Arvin blurts out. "I didn’t mean to drag you into all this. It was my mess all along, but you’re the one that fixed it. You’ve been good to me -”

“I told them,” he shouts, like God himself dragged it out of him. “I told them your little secret,” he says calmly. Arvin’s eyes grow red and wet with each word. “I tried telling them you were religious, struck with a need to follow the Lord’s word, but it wouldn’t take. So I told them I suspected you to be a homosexual.”

“I-I saw the paper,” Arvin warbles. “It said it right there, plain as day.”

“We came to a little agreement,” Preston says. “Don’t get weepy now. What if I hadn’t sweet talked them for you? Were you planning on going to war if the church couldn’t keep you?” he leans forward, lacing his fingers and resting them on the desk, “or were you prepared to drop this little bombshell yourself? Your little ace in the hole, get out of basic free card.”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles. Preston raises a brow. “I _don’t_! I didn’t think about it! And it worked out so I don’t have to!” He settles then, and wipes his eyes with the cuff of his sleeve. “Maybe it wouldn’t have mattered. Some doctor would have thought it of me anyway, being small and slight. Making assumptions.”

“No girlfriends.” Preston sighs. “I do apologize, for all the good it does, but you don’t need to go worrying. They’re decent men. I doubt your grandma will ever have to find out through gossip.”

“I feel like I should thank you,” Arvin whispers to his drawn up knees, “but I also want to punch you in the stomach.”

“Regretting saying yes to working for the church?”

Arvin shakes his head. “I want to stay. Even if,” he stops himself, glancing up at Preston through wet lashes. There’s something endless in those eyes. “It’s good, consistent pay. Honest work. I like it here.”

“Good.” Preston smiles, mirthless. “In light of our working together, I think it best we dial things back a bit. Keep it professional. I’m not asking you to leave,” he assures Arvin, (“But, but Preston -”) “but I think it would be for the best if we focus on being associates and less on personal matters.”

“Preston -” there it is again, all this “Preston” business. He doesn’t like the way it grips his heart - “I’m not really mad, honest.” He gets up, crouching by the desk and looking up at Preston, praying at his small altar for mercy. “None of that, that was just -”

“You used me,” Preston says, “and you used this church. All for your own personal gain. Bet you don’t even realize how well you play the innocent, naive one.”

“None of that was part of it!” Arvin yells, still kneeling on the floor, still baring his belly. “That, the things we do, all that was sincere, I promise. I _like_ it, alright. What you told those two, it was right. You’re right about me.”

“Shh,” Preston wipes a thumb across Arvin’s cheekbone, “stop all this crying. I am suggesting a sabbatical,” he explains. All he needs to do is _explain_ himself, and Arvin will see things the right way. “Time to contemplate. Consider the ramifications of our actions. All this revelry is clouding our perspectives. Intent or not, your behavior has consequences. Why don’t you think about what it is you want, Arvin, now that the threat of war isn’t in the way. See if your tune don’t change chords.”

“Fine,” he sniffs, angrily scrubbing at his face and pushing himself up off the floor. He grabs a book from Preston’s desk and sends it flying into the wall. (Joke’s on him, it’s a book Preston is supposed to condemn. Arvin’s doing his work for him.)

“Oh, and move that bed elsewhere,” Preston calls after him. “Basement’s unfinished, but you can do what you like. Make it a little space all your own. you'll need a good winter project to keep yourself occupied.” Arvin slams the door, and Preston grabs the bottle of bourbon from the bottom drawer of his desk and uncaps it before taking a long pull straight from the bottle. “Whatever the hell you want as long as it’s not in my sight.”

\---

There are things Preston never considered when he accepted his first little favor donation. He’s been in this church five years now, and he has no issue smoothing over little squabbles with the law or a tiny drinking problem swept under the rug, or that time he convinced two of the Missus’ of the church to just agree to share responsibilities for the prayer circle even though he knew who was at fault. (He would have loved to enact his own little judgement of Solomon but who has the time?) But when the man he knows as Bill Palmer but plenty of people call Handsy comes to him with a whole mess of bills and a story to tell, well Preston may have realized too late he’s been treading water all this time and he’s about to be pulled under the waves.

And he never considered his own death, not with any real weight, but the second the big man sends him sprawling on the floor of the church he starts doing it a whole lot all at once. Sure he's doing an awful lot of beseeching and praying between one fist to the chin and another to his stomach, but underneath it all he is damn sure his time is about up and he may not be at peace with that fact.

He hears rather than sees Arvin, being a sensible man and cowering to protect his face from further attack. It’s an inhuman thing, visceral, angry, punctuated with dull thuds and some unsettling gurgling towards the end of things. Preston doesn’t dare peek until he hears the metallic twang of something heavy hitting the hardwood.

“Saints alive,” he breathes, peeking between his fingers at the grisly sight of Arvin, face splattered with Bill’s blood, panting from the effort of braining the man repeatedly with the collection plate. “Arvin-”

“It was self defense!” he yells, nearly shrieks. He’s vibrating, a bundle of nerves all firing wildly. “I-I was defending you!”

“I know that!” Preston shouts. He breathes, and chokes on the smell. “Shower.”

“Preston -”

“Boy I did not stutter!”

“It was self defense,” Arvin whimpers. “Right?”

“I, yes, Arvin,” he sighs, wincing when his back aches as he stands. He’s going to feel this one for a week. “And once the sheriff gets down here we will _tell_ him that, but you don’t need to look like a wild animal while we’re doing it! So shower!” He gestures with a definitive point towards the house, and Arvin is oh so happy to comply. “Clothes on!” He shouts after him, satisfied by a wave of Arvin’s hand as he runs. “Lord in _heaven_ , what the hell was that?”

-

"I left the boy inside. Didn't think it was fair to him to make him hold vigil over his handiwork," Preston guides the sheriff into the church proper and holds his bruised nose, pain be damned because the odor is _foul_. "Now, why don't you see for yourself."

"That Bill Palmer?"

"It would seem so."

"It _seems_ like he's dead." The sheriff gives him an unceremonious tap on the leg with his boot. "Arvin Russell did this?"

"I'm defense of me," Preston reminds him.

"And what did you do?" Preston balks at him, but he's unamused. "Reverend I know that blow to the head didn't knock your skull off, so why don't you just stop pretending to be unawares. We work together here, so work with me and tell me what you said or didn't say or didn't _do_ and we can move on with our lives."

"Always was a straightforward man," Preston comments. "You know that Miller girl? Kept getting herself in trouble skipping school? Seems old Palmer got a tad ah, handsy, only things took a turn."

"She's been reported as a runaway for half a week now."

"Seems she maybe didn't run as far as we thought," Preston sighs. "God rest his soul, I fear the devil got a hold on him. I might've gotten a few details before I refused."

"Hence the ass whooping he commenced with all over your face."

"Most certainly," Preston winces. "The boy ran to my defense, you see."

"Dented up the collection plate," the sheriff adds, holding the weapon of choice between two fingers.

"I think it would be a kindness if you didn't make him dwell too much. He's shaken enough as it is." The sheriff levels him with a look. "If it wasn't for him you wouldn't have a lead to the Miller girl. I'd be deader than he is."

"I'd like to get his story," he sighs tiredly. "My wife made her meatloaf. I'm supposed to be _eating_ that meatloaf."

"It's what you signed up for, sheriff."

"I didn't sign up for _this_ ," he gives Bill's leg another kick. "I'll get a crew over here to clean this all up. And I'm talking with the boy myself. I'll get skinned alive if I don't at least get a statement."

-

Preston watches from the kitchen while the sheriff asks Arvin several gentle questions while the boy sits on the couch, bundled up in a blanket and sipping a mug of tea. He'd done as he was told and showered, scrubbed himself so hard he's still red and raw half an hour later.

"How'd you know to go running?"

"Didn't," Arvin shrugs, "but I got this feeling I can't explain. Like a pull right in my stomach."

"The Lord sent me an angel," Preston says from his perch. "Wouldn't you say so sheriff?"

"I suppose I would," he says, dotting one last "i" and closing his notepad. "You might get some more questions in the next day or two. Little things to help clarify any uncertainties. I'd stick around."

"Yes sir," Arvin nods.

Quieter, as Preston is showing him the door, the sheriff tells him, "I'd keep your nose out of other people's business for a couple weeks, Reverend. I can't imagine the Lord's going to send him running a second time."

"Thank you, sheriff," he says, and shuts and locks the door once they're alone. "Lord in heaven, I am fixing to hibernate until spring."

"Will you sit with me?" Arvin asks, so pitiful and sweet he makes Preston's teeth hurt. "I know it's not professional."

"Forget that," Preston urges. He sits to Arvin's right and pulls him in. "Boy, that was really something. I'm awful surprised you came at all, given the way we left things, but you sure know how to defy expectations."

"I didn't mean to kill him," he croaks from behind his hands. "But he wouldn't stop, and then I _couldn't_ stop, and it all happened so fast." He looks at Preston, studying the mess his face has become, as if his own isn't its own sort of wreck. "You're not scared of me now, are you?"

"I'm more scared of Bill Palmer and you handled him easily." He meant for it to feel light, funny but he finds himself with Arvin's head in his lap with his face pressed up against Preston's stomach. He pets his hair, curling the strands while they're still wet. "And here I thought I was exaggerating when I called you a scared little mess. Easy now, you're alright. And I'm alright, too." Arvin sobs once, and Preston coos at him. "C'mon, no need to cause the second flood. Can't you see this is a sign? The Lord wants you right here with me. He still has plans for us. Together, alright? That sound good to you?"

He finds himself with a bed mate again. He's quieter, more fragile than ever but he clings and tugs and sighs, all soft around the edges as Preston does a little worshiping of his own this time. And he's a whimpering puddle when Preston's through with him, spent and sweating and ready to collapse. Arvin doesn't give him a choice in the matter; he stakes a claim on Preston's chest, dead center, and he's helpless to anything other than hang on to the boy and hope it lasts.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s a bright, pleasant spring day, and Preston has never welcomed death so strongly.

He plasters on a fake smile for the gaggle of ladies bustling about his church, hanging up lace and flowers and all sorts of matrimonial paraphernalia. Things are easier when his role focuses on his carefully curated list of suggested readings. He’s in his element then, feeling the Lord’s will flow through him as he gives a few well-thought examples for the sister, the cousin, and whoever else little Miss Bride to Be decides is important enough to read from the good book on her wedding day.

Things are fine, good even, until she brings up the damn hydrangea a third time.

“It’s just unsightly,” she complains. “Such a sad little thing.”

“It’s due to bloom late spring,” Preston explains tonelessly.

“I’d just like it if you talked to him,” she says. “See if there ain’t something we can do.”

Preston renews his smile, feeling the deadness in his eyes but not caring enough to mask it properly. He offers up a few listless comments to the rest of the ladies on his way out the door, and he comes to stand on the last step leading up to the church. The door creaks on its hinges as it shuts, and they are left in relative bliss.

“Do you find yourself with a free moment or two?”

Arvin leans forward on his little rake and chews the corner of his lip. “Asking about the bush again?”

“Miss Mary would just love it if you could do something about it.”

“Didn’t bloom til June last year,” Arvin says. “Probably won’t until June this year too.”

“I think she’s open to it just going away,” Preston offers.

“Well, I could move it,” Arvin says hesitantly, “but it’s an old thing. I don’t know if it’ll survive. Plus, there’s probably roots down under the foundation by now.”

“So that’s a no,” Preston sighs. “I really do hate this whole fanfare. Tell me why I agree to officiate every time?”

“Cause they give you a nice little present every time,” Arvin reminds him. “And sometimes I even get something if they like my gardening.”

“Everyone likes your gardening.”

“It’s just nice to get a little recognition,” he says. “I didn’t know a damn thing about plants before I worked here.”

“You’re a natural,” he smiles, a real one this time. “Now if you could just work some sort of magic it’d make my life a whole lot easier.”

“It’s not your fault she bumped the date up three months. It was gonna bloom if she kept the third week of June.”

“If she kept the third week of June I’m afraid she wasn’t going to still fit in that dress of hers.”

Arvin snorts. “They sure are something sometimes, aren’t they?”

“That’s a way of putting it,” he sighs, eyeing the bush again. It’s a nice plant, perfectly filled out and acceptable. Not its fault Mary’s got a thing against all that green. “So that’s really a no?”

“I’m gonna say it’s a no.” (“Right.”) Arvin lifts his rake onto his shoulder. “If it makes her feel better I’m cleaning up the beds real good for her special day. Got a few fresh bags of mulch just this morning.” He glances up to the church doors, and back to Preston. “Think the coast is clear?”

He laughs, “not even close.”

“Yeah,” Arvin shrugs, “guess not. Listen, I gotta run back into town for a bit. Hardware store said they had some scrap for me to make that lattice arch thing she’s wanting. Figured I could run by the grocers and pick you up a bottle of bourbon, seeing as I can actually get it myself now.”

“I didn’t ask for that,” Preston scolds him. Arvin just stands there smirking. “Yes, thank you. You’re a saint. Now go,” he shoos Arvin towards the car. “Save yourself while you still can.”

-

Arvin is nearly run out of town on a rail in the immediate aftermath of him unleashing the Lord's righteous fury all over the back of Bill Palmer's skull. Preston has never answered the phone that many times in his entire life, and he once volunteered to work for a phone bank for a religious fundraiser back in his early high school days. Arvin sits there on the floor by Preston's desk the whole time, savoring the feel of long fingers tangled in his sweaty hair, and listening to Preston sing his praises while clutching his pant leg in an iron grip.

And then they find the Miller girl's body out by the creek, and the only voice still decrying Arvin's good nature is the newly widowed Mrs Palmer, who steadfastly refuses to believe a word of it to this very day.

And then months continue to pass and the boy still tries his damnedest to bend over backwards to help everyone, even when Preston's having to nurse him through a bout of bronchitis so severe he's bedridden for two whole days while he recovers. Even when said bronchitis is because he wouldn’t stop offering to shovel the driveways of the more elderly members.

And it's happening here and now while he takes instruction from the maid of honor regarding some archway Mary demands they have for the pictures. He smiles and nods and yes ma'ams his way through the interaction, façade only dropping during a moment Preston sees but doesn't hear, but he can hazard a guess. All this favor winning the boy does garners him his fair share of compliments, and more than one offer tends to follow shortly after.

He smirks at the way the boy's face pinches with wariness, and sympathy, and then there's the brief but heartfelt "I'm sorry" as he refuses a date to some social or diner or wherever it is this time. Preston will hear all about it later when he has Arvin undressed and under the covers. It does something to Preston, seeing the boy get offer after offer only to come running the second he crooks his finger.

"You sure are keeping that boy on a tight leash," one of the mothers comments as she and Preston watch a rejected maid of honor trudge back into the church.

"He keeps his own leash," Preston says. "Now darling don't you let that boy break your heart," he croons from across the room. She smiles sadly as she picks up one of the bundles of flowers. "His head's full of leaves from last fall. Pretty sight but the Lord himself would hesitate to call him a thinker."

"You're trying to get a date the day before _my_ wedding day?" Mary scoffs, the little pearl clutcher. "Darla, you’ve got to get your priorities right."

Mary's mother leans closer to Preston and whispers, "and if she'd done the same the wedding would still be in June."

"Bless the young," Preston jokes, and the two share a little chortle under their breaths before moving on to the Corinthians.

Sailing isn't smooth but it's steady. Readings are selected and highlighted and rehearsed. Preston offers to give a sermon that is politely requested to be short and sweet; he promises both while intending neither. (Alright, he'll make it sweet, hard not to when his topics are so limited.) And a pretty little white arch finds its way into the garden bed Arvin's grandma suggested he put in over a year ago.

So he's surprised, but just barely, when one of the girls comes rushing inside after giving Arvin's handiwork a gander, declaring the boy's near fainting.

"His face is beet red," she declares, "and he's panting like a dog."

"Heat exhaustion," Preston says with finality. "Hard worker, that boy. Gives it all he has and then some. Happened a few times last summer. Now, he'll be fine, but if you ladies wouldn't mind I'll go help our young Arvin get settled back at the house. Shouldn't be too long. Darla, be a dear and go into the back. Find one of the nice bibles for me. We'll use it during the ceremony tomorrow."

"Of course, Reverend," she agrees. "You can count on me."

"I know I can count on all of you," he tells the room. "Coming together like this, doing good, honest work to honor Miss Mary and her husband to be the way the Lord intends. Bless you," he says, "bless this day. Amen."

-

He finds Arvin fanning himself with his hat, face indeed as red as reported and beads of sweat dripping down his face. There's a musky, heady scent surrounding him, filling Preston's nostrils as he helps Arvin back to the house.

"And here I thought you were fixing to behave today," he says sternly. He pushes Arvin against the closed door once they're inside, sliding his hand up into his sweaty hair. "Now what on earth could you have done to get yourself in this state."

"Jumping jacks," Arvin says, cheeky. "Behind the house. A whole lot of them."

"And just what am I to do with you," Preston muses. "Dragging me away from my earthly duties because you're so damn impatient. _Lying_. Making all those lovely ladies sick with worry."

"Thought you'd like a little break," Arvin teases. He sighs contentedly, his eyes sliding shut when Preston's nails scratch his scalp. "I'd be willing to entertain."

"Are you planning on letting me get back to it if I agree?" Arvin shrugs one shoulder, half-lidded eyes honing in on Preston's mouth. Smarmy little shit. "Insatiable. The Lord is going to punish you for your hubris if you don't reign it in."

"You're the one indulging me," Arvin points out needlessly. And Preston kisses him. Far be it from him to make the little heathen a liar too.

\---

The one thing Preston knows for certain about Arvin Russell's grandmother is her unintended but incredibly thoughtful consideration to hold off dying unexpectedly until after he pronounces the bride and groom.

He has a few vague notions about the woman gleaned from passing comments from her grandson. A God loving, kind-hearted thing. And anyone that handled Arvin during any tumultuous years would have needed the patience of a saint.

“I’m going to have to drive back tonight,” Preston says. He taps his thumb against the steering wheel, scraping his nail across the leather as he watches the winding roads. “I’d stay,” he says, “but -”

“You got church,” Arvin says. “It’s alright. We can give you something to eat at my grandma’s place before you go. Send you off right.”

“Awful kind.”

“I would have driven myself,” Arvin says, and he will continue to say it the whole drive, Preston is certain. “Honest, you could still turn around.”

“You’re in no state to drive,” Preston scolds him. “There’s plenty of cotton stuffed up in your head as it is.”

“I’m fine.”

“You aren’t,” he insists. “And _that_ is just fine, but I’ll be doing the driving. Don’t need you running some poor woman off the road.”

“I know how to handle myself!”

The hell of it is Preston’s sure Arvin would have made it up to Coal Creek just fine; it’s the return trip that worries him. Arvin cried exactly two tears over the phone call he took in Preston’s office, and settled into this unnerving calm in the immediate aftermath.

“Course you do,” Preston says softly, kindly. He gives Arvin’s shoulder a few comforting pats before returning it to the wheel. “There’s no one here but us and the Lord. No need to put on a show.”

Arvin twists himself around in his seat to have a good pout. Preston doesn't mind. There's something pleasant about a quiet drive on country roads. And when Arvin can't seem to help but punctuate that quiet with his sniveling he turns on the radio to give the boy a little peace.

-

They drive for an extra hour because the boy decides to fall asleep against the window without providing Preston with more concrete directions. He intuits his way to the town proper, and handles an essential trip to the gas station for fuel. The way the boy carries on about the woman Preston expects some sort of procession outside her home, maybe a thoughtful little vigil of some of her fellow church members, but he doesn’t find anything of the sort.

“Arvin,” he whispers, and then progressively louder when he doesn’t stir. It takes an actual hand on the boy’s arm to rouse him. He scowls over at Preston, the grumpy little thing still wiping the sleep from his eyes. “Care to explain exactly where I’m supposed to be going?”

“My grandma’s house,” he grumbles. The moment he seems to grasp the situation he sits up properly. “The hell are we?”

“I’m asking you to tell _me_ that,” Preston says slowly. “I’ll cruise around a bit. Why don’t you see if something jogs your memory.”

He finds his way back to the gas station, now thoroughly convinced he's been driving in a damn circle, but the sight of it perks Arvin's attention, and he gestures to the small road to the left of it, declaring it the shortcut he favored growing up.

"And what is your plan, being back here?" Preston asks. "Just what do you hope to accomplish?"

"Left here," Arvin says softly, and Preston does so. "Well, I guess there's the funeral proper. Her church will hold the service, and she has a little plot all saved up by my grandpa." He silently points to a little side road and Preston turns onto it a bit sharply, earning himself a little side-eye. God bless these small towns, but he can't make any sense of their road systems. "And I need to set things right at the house. I left some things behind. Didn't seem proper to make her drive them out to me, or make her pay postage."

"Thoughtful of you," Preston comments. He knows his involvement here is merely background, and the lack of acknowledgement of his praise doesn't bother him. "And the house?"

"My great-uncle's house," Arvin ponders, "or, I suspect it's in his name now. Guess we'll have to get her will all squared away."

"If she had one," Preston counters. "Not exactly an uncommon situation."

"She has one," Arvin insists. "She wouldn’t want to inconvenience anybody.”

“I’m not suggesting your confidence is in any way insufficient -”

“I helped her do it,” Arvin snaps, and that’s that.

Preston parks in the overgrown drive of Arvin's family home and turns off the car, plunging them into an unsettled silence. Neither man makes a move to leave the vehicle, and he takes it upon himself to smooth a few ruffled feathers.

"I don't mean to come across as indelicate," he says calmly, soothingly, and puts a hand on Arvin's leg for emphasis. It disarms the boy, and he lets a bit of that wall come down, just for a little while. "I only hope to suss out some of the more governmental annoyances you're bound to encounter so we can avoid a few inconveniences."

Arvin's eyes harden, just when Preston was thinking the boy would own himself. He swats away Preston's hand. "Glad to know I'm an inconvenience."

"Now you," he huffs, and snags the collar of Arvin's jacket, tugging him in close to whisper in his ear. "We both know you're being belligerent because you can be, so why don't you stop with the purposeful misinterpretations." Arvin squirms a little, due to the angle or perhaps the unwanted breath dragging a blush up his cheeks. "Why don't you check your little attitude for the sake of your remaining family and calm yourself."

Arvin takes a measured breath, and another when it has the opposite effect. His head tips towards Preston's, tapping forehead against forehead while he composes himself after his little tantrum.

"Got yourself all sorted?" Arvin nods, sufficiently chastened and calm, with just a touch of mist in his eyes. "Why don't we get inside and get you settled."

They don’t wait for Arvin’s great-uncle to greet them at the door. Arvin calls through the house, hollering for his uncle to meet them in the kitchen, and Preston hangs back to watch this little reunion unfold.

Preston doesn’t know the finer details of the living arrangement, though he can intuit some basic theories between the familial relation and the offhand mention of his grandfather’s cemetery plot. In any case, the firm handshake exchanged by the two men feels cold, distant, like Arvin is some sort of young stranger volunteering his time to help a man who finds himself all alone after the death of his sister.

“I’m sorry,” Arvin says, voice sandpaper smooth.

“You know your grandma,” his uncle chides. “She wouldn’t want you shedding any tears for her. Think of the good times, and pull yourself together for her sake.” He turns his attention towards Preston and squints. “Who’s this now?”

“Reverend Preston Teagarden,” he says politely, offering up his own hand to shake. “The Lord presented me with an opportunity of charity that I could not refuse.” And, because the man genuinely doesn’t seem to know who he is, “Arvin manages the grounds for the church where I preach. Seeing as he lacks transportation of his own I offered.”

“I told him we’d give him dinner,” Arvin says, and bless this boy, he hasn’t made a lick of progress modulating his voice into something less brittle.

“I’m expected in town at the funeral parlor,” his uncle explains, “but you feel free to cobble something together for the reverend.”

“You don’t need any help?” Arvin asks, but he’s waved off. “Is there something here I should do?”

“You could sort through that old room of yours,” his uncle says gruffly. “You left in an awful hurry.”

“I meant to come back,” Arvin whispers. Preston gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze when his insistence goes unacknowledged. And with a quiet snick of the front door’s latch they’re left alone in Arvin’s childhood living room. “He’s a good man, honest.”

“He’s grieving,” Preston sweeps away any concerns with a wave. “Pay him no mind. Now, if you’d be kind enough to point out the location of the bathroom I am in need, and we can adjourn to your room to appease the man.”

“That way,” Arvin points, “and my room’s back there.”

“I’ll just be a moment.”

Preston leans against the sink for a good while, staring at his reflection in the old, pitted mirror. The whole house feels this way, rough and worn, but clean and lived in, comfortable. And the man is cold because he is scorned by Arvin’s departure; no sense in feeling resentment towards someone Preston will know only briefly. He washes his face in the sink and smooths back his hair, taming a stray lock in a fit of vanity before leaving the cramped space to find Arvin.

“Arvin?” he calls out, directing his attention towards some scuffling in a back room. He finds him there with part of his upper body shoved underneath a metal framed twin bed, and a cardboard box comes sliding out before Arvin scoots back to sit on his ankles. Preston tangles his fingers in his hair, giving it a gentle tug. “Well, if this isn’t exactly where I want you.”

Arvin squirms, cheeks pinking, but even after a pregnant pause, eyes trained on the buckle of Preston’s belt, he stands up properly and dusts off his pants. “Is it alright if I put some things in your trunk to bring back home? You don’t have to unload anything.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“There isn’t much, um,” Arvin sniffs, and tries covering up his misty eyes with a cough. “Sorry. S’dusty as hell under there.”

“Dusty, is it?”

“Yeah, that’s all.” He twists in place, once again hiding his watery eyes from Preston as he pretends to survey the room. “See, most of what I got left is clothes, but they haven’t been worn in months.”

“Hush,” he shushes him, tired of this charade. He tucks the boy against him, ignoring the protests until they cease. “Just rest your weary head, boy. Don’t worry about pleasing nobody for a spell.”

There’s no flood of tears, just a few choppy breaths against the collar of Preston’s shirt. He maintains the hold until Arvin wriggles himself free, but even after they part the distance between them is minimal.

“Why don’t you get back to busying yourself, see if it doesn’t help distract your mind.” He kisses him exactly once, knowing just how little the risk is worth taking. “I’ll be in the kitchen perusing the available fixings.”

“If there’s any leftovers you should give them a try,” Arvin says. “You never have gotten to taste her cooking. Best in the whole state.”

“Given your lack of taste I find that hard to believe,” he teases, “but I suppose I’ll have to see for myself.”

\---

Ever since his youth Preston has had a nasty habit of twisting a phone cord around a finger while he talks. An awful feminine quality, he was told, reminiscent of teenagers tying up the phone line talking about makeup and boys and what have you. In him it’s admittedly a nervous quality, something he can’t quite shake when he dreads an inevitability.

“Reverend Beeker,” he crows, smiling when the old bastard deems him worthy, “forgive the intrusion on what must be another glorious Saturday of you and yours’ retirement.”

“Teagarden,” he harrumphs, blessing Preston with the honor of hearing the man clear his throat right in his ear, “the missus and I were just entertaining the grandkids.”

“A blessed Saturday,” Preston agrees. “And I do hope I am not intruding on that time.”

“Sent them off an hour ago,” he assures Preston. “Why do I get the feeling this isn’t a social call?”

“You are a wise man,” Preston schmoozes, “and I apologize for the short notice, but I wanted to inquire whether a cherished member of this church community would be willing to grace us with a service tomorrow.”

“Awful short,” he muses.

“I don’t want you feeling any sort of obligation, Reverend.”

“I would,” he laments, and Preston barely swallows back a sigh, “but the missus has been asking after a trip out to our boy in Ohio.”

“Safe travels,” Preston answers automatically.

“You know I’d jump at the chance if I could, but you know the missus.”

_And you_ , Preston thinks, _lazy old bastard_. “Really, think nothing of it. I find myself with a minor annoyance, nothing more. You enjoy your trip, and when you’re back in town you give me a call if you’re feeling particularly preachy afterwards.”

-

Preston watches Arvin load the car with a vague interest and a full stomach. He’d given the barest of offers to help, and made no complaints when Arvin insisted on doing it himself. The boy’s childhood wasn’t exactly plentiful; everything he left behind is neatly tucked away into three cardboard boxes and a charming little paisley tote.

“Was I right?” He asks after the final box is placed in the trunk. “Best food you’ve ever had?”

“I’ve lived a fair bit longer than you,” Preston says, “and my one regret will be my never having had your grandmother’s food fresh from the oven.”

The corners of Arvin’s mouth turn down, but he seems satisfied by the reply. “Coming back didn’t feel right,” he says. “Not after.”

“You’ve said,” Preston says, “and lo and behold, the choice was taken from you. Don’t fret,” he clasps one of Arvin’s hands in his own, bending in for a short prayer, “for the Lord knows your intentions, and deems them righteous. And now you may honor her memory. Monday?” he confirms, tilting his gaze up to catch Arvin’s nod. “I’ll be sure to join you when I am able.”

“You have a meeting,” Arvin says.

“A short one,” Preston insists. He folds his hands around Arvin’s for a moment, savoring the warmth and calluses before stepping away. There’s no sense mentioning his feeble attempt to _stay_ , as if his presence would be anything other than an oddity. No need to give the boy a bigger ego thinking this was anything more than Preston looking to lop off the middle two of his drives.

“After the burial her church is having a big potluck here,” he explains, “you’re welcome to come.”

“I just might,” he says, promising nothing while he’s mentally selecting a nice suit. Something a bit more subtle, and obviously dark in color given the circumstances. “You take care, now.”

-

There’d been an incident prior to the finding of the poor Miller girl’s body. A half hearted attempt of intimidation in the form of a sizable brick finding its way into their basement through one of the recessed windows. The crash was world ending, startling in a way Preston hadn’t felt since Tennessee. His hands had a mighty shake to them, eyes fabricating the blotchy red letters across the side, the charming colloquial of a European cigarette burned into his brain even as he turns the second brick over in his hands and finds the surface is blank. Uncreative, this lot, and he’s thankful they’re also careless. Having resecured Arvin’s place in his bed the night prior, the only damage is to their frazzled nerves and a single, easily replaced pane of glass.

Arvin had thrown a fit to end all fits, worse than his histrionics following Bill Palmer’s death. “You shouldn’t have gone alone,” he’d shouted, “you should have let me go!”

Preston had insisted he wasn’t a target, though given the sheriff’s mighty scowl on this evening, he is less sure he isn’t on someone’s radar. The Lord’s, certainly, because he keeps testing Preston’s resolve, sending him these lost souls and their escalating problems they expect him to solve. But someone else seems to be sending him offers he cannot refuse, and for the first time in an age he is doubting the decision he made not one hour ago.

“It’s a terrible shame the weather is so fair,” Preston says, “given the somber nature of our meeting.”

“Reverend,” the sheriff’s a touch exasperated with him today. Granted, the man’s feathers always appear ruffled when he’s asked to expend excess effort. “I am only calm in appearance.”

“You heard, I’m sure, about Arvin’s grandmother. Poor boy’s up in Coal Creek as we speak helping with the details.”

“Preston!” he shouts, startling Preston out of his lamentations. “I implore you, no, I am _begging_ you to explain yourself. When you approached me -”

“I seem to remember you approaching me first, sheriff.”

“When we first contacted one another,” he amends, and Preston accepts with a nod, “I was under the impression your little disruptions wouldn’t be quite so severe. So why did I get a message on my office phone explaining how you sweet talked the arresting officer that found Macon Sr engaging in an affair with a _prostitute_.”

“Now, sherriff -”

“I don’t want any flowery explanations,” he warns, interjecting. “I don’t want you schmoozing me tonight, Preston. I want you to walk me through what in God’s name is going through that thick skull of yours.”

“Is that how you want his wife finding out about her husband’s infidelity? Front page news in this town, finding a successful man with a loving wife fornicating a woman of ill repute.” Preston shakes his head, sighing. “Will it satisfy you to know I called her? That we’re having a nice little chat in an hour’s time? Think of her, sheriff. Think of their boys. Now what I have truly given them is the means to punish the man in a more fitting way. He’ll be supporting them through high school, college, hell I suspect at least one of those boys is going to be around the house long after he’s overstayed his welcome.”

“I’m not fond of this,” he says.

“You fond of another little donation for your reelection?” Preston asks, leveling him with a stare. “Macon Sr was mighty generous, as he should be, considering I had to talk them both free.”

“I still don’t _like_ this, Preston.”

“When have you ever liked this, Marshall?” Preston presses on, not that he expects an answer, but because he’s buzzing with energy, itching to get on with things and be done with them. And he’s antsy about a night alone in his warm, soft bed while Arvin’s two hours away under cheap cotton sheets. “We’ve endured for the sake of this town, and the well-intentioned people of this church. Can’t let a few rotten apples poison the entire bushel.”

“They’re fixing to poison what little good judgement you still have,” he says tiredly. “Between them and that boy -”

“Arvin saved my life,” Preston interrupts, “and gave a family closure.”

“And widowed another,” Marshall says. “Your blind eye is a powerful thing, Preston. Powerfully stupid. He really worth all the trouble? He that good to you?”

Preston’s eyes narrow. “I’m not sure I like what you’re implying.”

“How about a suggestion then,” he says. “I’d watch how many fingers you jam into other people’s pies when the boy gets over his little infatuation with you. I doubt he’ll come running twice. And in the future I expect a call before you go pardoning half the town for actual crimes.”

“I’m keeping you informed,” he says.

“Why don’t we try increasing the urgency of telling me your little plans before they’re completed. I’ve done my level best to keep your little secret back in Tennessee where it belongs. I doubt you want that sort of attention on yourself or the boy.”

"I'm not sure I'm all that fond of your tone, Marshall. Feels awful close to a threat."

"Nothing else seems to be working on you these days. I'm not in the market to threaten your life, but your livelihood is a other matter."

“I’d be careful now,” Preston says, voice low, heavy, the kind he only breaks out for those special sermons about Hellfire and sin. “Given your familial circumstances I expected more sympathy from you. Why, your oldest boy’s looking more undraftable every day, Marshall. My blind eye doesn’t miss the way he’s _ogling_ a certain groundskeeper -”

The sheriff never struck him as the slapping sort, and he blinks away surprise after a particularly good backhand across his cheek. His jaw pops as he rights it, and he grimaces.

“You leave my boy out of this,” he snarls.

“I implore you to see the irony of threatening _me_ about keeping this particular secret,” he says. He rubs his jaw, but the pain is already fading. “I am merely pointing out your hypocrisy. This is not mutually assured destruction.”

“It will be if you mention my son again.”

“Fine.” Preston spreads his hands in surrender. Believe it or not he is aware that there are lines, and when to bare his belly after he’s crossed them. "Just what can I do to please you, Marshall? How can I soothe that troubled brow?"

"I think you have an idea or two knocking around in there, so why don't you just say it."

"I do," he nods. “I won't make a promise I can't keep but why don’t I pause my involvement for a week or two, give us the chance to renegotiate some terms and ease some anxieties.”

Marshall nods. He doesn’t look happy, but content is a rather high bar considering the start of the evening. Preston shows him the door, hanging off the knob as he leans out into the gentle breeze. “And Marshall?” he calls, “of all the people in this town, deal or no deal, I am most certainly the last one you need to worry about spreading any rumors about your boy.”

“I,” he sighs, and rubs a hand over his five o’clock shadow, “I’m aware, Preston.”

“Then let’s stop with this little nonsense about Tennessee,” he presses, “and just strike those details from the record. Give us both some peace of mind for the night."

"It'll come back to bite you someday."

"Doubtful," he scoffs. He can't imagine the scandal of it all being worse for him than the Government Fat Cat father of the young man he left behind. "No one likes stirring the pot in an election year."

"You really are something," Marshall shakes his head, not giving it the same complimentary flair as Arvin does. Granted, the boy's usually a bit more indisposed when he says it.

"The Lord made me as I am," he croons, ushering the man off his stoop. "And Marshall, if you’re looking for some kindness for your boy in the future, you just send him our way and we’ll ah, straighten him out,” he chuckles, watching a stormcloud thunder across Marshall’s face. “Get your head out of the gutter. I am talking about _advice._ Now off with you,” he shoos him away now that he’s sufficiently placated. “I have a marriage to dissolve.”

\---

The unfortunate reality of Preston Teagarden is thus; somehow Arvin’s presence in his bed is a comfort, be it the warmth of another or perhaps the security of his little guardian angel, Preston finds himself drifting off to sleep easy when the boy is there. In his absence it eludes him, so much so that he pours an extra finger of bourbon in his nightcap to chase away his lingering consciousness.

It is during the second of three fingers that Preston’s office phone rings, and it’s because of the first two combined that he finds himself answering. Thankfully, he may add, because the relief that washes over him when Arvin asks how his sermon went is a soothing balm.

“And here I thought you were a Godless heathen,” Preston crows. “I may have broken my little promise. The ladies noticed your absence, and I felt it appropriate to include a brief mention of your grandmother’s passing during the final prayer.”

Arvin is quiet for a beat, and Preston takes a sip of his bourbon before he spouts any more declarations. “I suppose it’s alright.”

“But just because it wasn’t the sermon?” Preston teases. “Enough about me and my day job. I didn’t expect a call. You missing me already?”

“I miss the bed,” Arvin jests right back. “My uncle was never much of a talker. I’m used to you running your mouth every chance you get.”

“My aren’t you something, such a flatterer.”

“And I miss you,” he whispers, soft enough to keep certain relations from overhearing.

“Now don’t you fret. I’ll be there for the potluck tomorrow.”

“Could you come early?” Arvin pleads. “I swear it was an accident, honest, but I forgot my good clothes. I don’t want my grandma’s angel looking down and seeing her grandson dressed for work at her funeral.”

“Arvin.”

“And before you ask I tried borrowing my uncle’s truck, but he was out late. Just got back a half hour ago. And he’s gonna need it bright and early, and I can’t leave him with almost no gas -”

“Arvin!” he snaps, and Arvin stutters to a stop. “Take a moment. Compose yourself.” He listens to Arvin breathe in and out harshly, and then less so until it turns into a drawn out sigh. “There now, isn’t that better? Don’t you want to be good for me?” Arvin hums an affirmative. “Good. Very good. Why don’t you ask me again. Do it nicely, now.”

“Preston, can you bring me my nice clothes in the morning? I’ll be sure to make you some coffee when you arrive.”

“You’ll certainly do something to make it up to me,” he purrs. “I’ll be there, and we’ll see if we can’t steal ourselves a few minutes.”

“I can’t guarantee anything,” Arvin says. “My uncle’s selling the house.”

“And that means we can’t sneak away somewhere?” he teases. “I suppose he has you helping with the particulars.”

“More or less,” Arvin huffs. “I just want to go home.”

Preston doesn’t articulate his matching sentiments. It’s moot, because Arvin’s grandmother is being laid to rest tomorrow mid-morning, and a strong young man like Arvin is undoubtedly going to be called upon to do his part carrying her casket. And anyway, it’s not what he means. What he really means is he would love to just be done with this whole affair once and for all, and maybe indulge Preston in a bit of hedonism for his selflessness.

Alright, that part may just be Preston, and also the last finger of bourbon burning its way down his throat.

“Preston?”

“When do you want me there?” he asks casually. “I am dying to tell you all about my meeting today. Meetings, actually. I was rather popular, though only at the beginning of each.”

“What did you do,” Arvin sighs, exasperated.

“ _I_ merely listened, and then conveyed what I heard to a worthy party. Things may be a bit interesting the next time you go to Macon’s grocers. Maybe we ought to give the other store our patronage for the time being.”

“You really aren’t going to tell me?”

“I’m going to make you wait,” he corrects. “Now stop holding me in suspense and tell me what glorious hour I need to be awake in the morning?”

-

Preston has never enjoyed driving in the pre-dawn hours. The one blessing is the angle of the sun is at his right, casting a warm glow onto Arvin’s cheap suit and Preston’s overnight bag and not directly in his eyes.

Now he knows he’s going to arrive early, but it isn’t until he parks at the house and finds Arvin’s uncle’s truck in the drive, and the man himself sipping at his own mug of coffee out on the porch, that he puts two and two together and realizes Arvin may have bought them more than a few minutes together. It feels inappropriate to be so giddy on such a day, but he can’t curtail the little spring in his step as he exchanges a few confused pleasantries on his way past Arvin’s uncle.

“Boy forgot his suit in his distressed state,” he explains.

“You sure do possess a great deal of charity,” his uncle muses. He’s eyeing Preston a particular way, and he shoves down any urge to over explain himself. “Must be a preacher thing.”

“Must be,” he agrees. “If you don’t mind pointing me in the right direction,” he trails off, following the path of Arvin’s uncle’s finger out towards the ramshackle barn on the other side of the drive. “Thank you.”

The barn door creaks as he steps inside, wary of the ground’s cleanliness but assuming the time for livestock has long since passed. Arvin is easy enough to find in the back, sitting on an overturned bucket and sorting through a set of rusty tools.

“Awful early,” he comments, stepping up beside him and putting a hand in his hair. Arvin leans against his thigh, repositioning himself so Preston’s leg is between his knees so he can continue his task while being needy. “I don’t suppose there’s any coffee for me.”

“I wanted to make you a fresh pot,” he says. “Thank you.”

“All I did was drive,” Preston brushes him off, and curls a lock of hair around his finger. “What exactly are you hoping to accomplish this morning?”

“The barn,” he says, “which, really most of it isn’t salvageable.”

“That’s saying something, considering your scavenging acumen.”

“Been too much rain,” he says, “and the roof leaks. Wasn’t ever worth the money to fix it either.”

"And the house?"

"My part's done. There's large items, beds and whatnot, but I'm not looking for a third."

"Cheeky," he teases, fluffing Arvin's hair. “Your other things are already in the basement,” Preston says, smirking down at Arvin’s grateful smile.

“Can I ask you something?”

“I can tell you’re about to make me awful happy or very disappointed,” he says blandly, “so why don’t you just spit it out.”

“Can you help with the barn?” Preston groans, giving Arvin some of his best dramatics. “Please? I’m really hoping to not have to stick around.”

“Things still a bit tender here, I see.”

“Being here doesn’t feel right without her,” he says. He tosses a rusty, bent up wrench into a bucket and clings to Preston’s knee. “It’s why he’s selling.”

“Can’t imagine he’s too keen on maintaining a larger property either.”

"That too." He releases Preston and moves to stand, hovering at the periphery of his personal space as if he wasn't a desperate limpet moments ago. "He's not a bad man -"

"We're not having that discussion," Preston stops him with two fingers to his lips. "I'll cast no aspersions, and you'll sing no praises."

Arvin nods, dislodging Preston's fingers. "Okay."

"So don't you, ah, right," he was expecting some push back, but his boy's exhausted. He'd squirrel him away to sleep off those heavy bags if he could. "Good. Why don't you get us both some coffee and we'll see what we can do to spruce up this little charmer."

Preston snags Arvin's arm as he tries to breeze past him, and he pulls him in close, nibbling at his neck before he can pull away. Arvin squirms, breath hitching, grip tightening even as he warns Preston against leaving any marks.

"Tell me," he whispers in Arvin's ear, "did you forget your suit on purpose?" Arvin's cheeks, which are already pinked from Preston's ministrations, darken a shade further. Preston kisses him, and swats his backside when he's unaware, making him yelp. "Incorrigible."

-

As the service draws ever nearer Preston wanders the entryway for the modest chapel of Arvin’s family’s church. People cast curious glances his way, but he smiles and waves and, predictably, it’s enough to shoo them off without having to tell the same tale a dozen times over. Just as well, because he has his eye on a stack of handmade flyers pinned dead center on the board. A plea following a fire, a bad one by the sounds of things, and he tears the top flyer free and stuffs it in his jacket pocket for safekeeping.

If he'd had his way Preston would have punched up some of the readings, but the service is appropriately somber. He sits in the back while poor Arvin is trapped up front with his uncle, knowing his sudden appearance raises enough questions. No need to amplify things by cozying up next to the boy.

Arvin cuts a nice figure in a suit. It's a shame he only has the one, though his argument against gardening in such fine clothing is a hard one to counter. He'd asked Preston for advice, and promptly ignored everything he said in favor of getting a dark gray number with a slim fit that hugs his strong shoulders. It's versatile, he's always saying. No one thinks twice about a gray suit.

He's across the grave at the burial, enduring a series of wary looks from Arvin's uncle. A familial trait, it seems, though on the older man's face it makes him uneasy. It's a far cry from the precursor to a delightful burst of self confidence in his nephew.

Arvin's not looking at anything, eyes a mile away even as he stares straight at the hole in the ground. His hand is flexing by his side, gripping, or itching to punch the next thing to irritate him. He likes the boy when he's a little fiesty, but Preston's not hankering for a black eye.

Afterwards his uncle motions for them to go, and then grabs Arvin's shoulder when he doesn't budge, but Arvin shakes him off, stalking away in a huff in the direction of the far gate. Preston nods once to Arvin’s uncle, offering up his services to help coax the boy back to the house so they can bask in the glory of a community celebrating a woman well liked and most certainly loved. He doesn’t bother waiting for his silent reply, content his message is clear when they are not followed.

He follows aimlessly, keeping a watchful eye on Arvin's back as he retreats. They stop a few yards shy of the gate underneath the shade of a knotted pine. Arvin taps his fist against the trunk, hesitant to use any actual force against something he's come to know dearly back home.

"We're in no rush," Preston says soothingly. "There's no expectations, no appointment so dire you can't take some time to reflect on what you're feeling."

"They're waiting for me," he says, "back at the house. They're all waiting. They'll all ask where I've been. Why I wasn't around."

"You would think so unkindly of these people?" Preston scoffs. "Why, I have known them a day -"

"You didn't kill a man!" Arvin snaps, and he throws his fist into the tree, swearing when he impacts its unyielding surface. Preston interferes then, and only to keep the boy out of the emergency room if it isn't too late already.

"Settle," he soothes. "Come now - hey!" He grabs Arvin's wrists and pins him in an embrace, chest against Arvin's heaving back. "Settle down. I know this weighs heavy on your heart,” he whispers. “Shh, I know,” he maneuvers them until his back hits the tree. Arvin thrashes weakly, a pitiful whimper escapes his lips, and it only takes some gentle insistences to get them sitting on the hard ground beneath the swaying branches. “Guilt is the Lord’s way of communicating his displeasure with our actions. It isn’t Bill Palmer weighing down your soul. It’s your grandmother, and what she must think of a grandson capable of ending a man’s life.”

Arvin sobs, and twists in Preston’s arms to burrow into his chest. He allows it, helping to create a little cave out of his limbs to help the boy feel sheltered and secure. “I can’t undo what’s been done. And I wouldn’t want to, boy. Think of all the good the Lord has given you. Think of your charity to the members of our church. Or your insistence to send part of your pay to your family even when they tried to send it back. You’ve more than earned His forgiveness. You’re going to disappoint Him if you don’t give yourself your own.”

“She loved you,” Preston continues, letting slip a mournful laugh as Arvin’s grief swells. “She feared for you, being in a world that would drive one of her own to such desperation.” He kisses Arvin’s forehead, and combs his hair back, tutting at the mess he’s made of himself and the front of Preston’s jacket. “Did any of her letters feel forced to you? Can’t you remember how she praised your hard work on that garden bed? I could feel the pride radiating off the paper from across the room.”

“I sh-” he hiccups, and wipes his face on his sleeve. “I should’a come back, at least for a visit.”

“There’s things all of us should have done,” Preston says. “I should have convinced you to buy a second suit. This one’s halfway to filthy and you have a potluck to attend.”

Arvin chuckles, and it goes all the way round back to more tears, but it’s calmer now, enough so that Preston takes a risk and grabs Arvin’s right hand to give it a proper inspection.

“You tell me if anything hurts.”

“It’s scraped,” he sniffs. He watches Preston run his fingers along the back of his hand, wincing when he reaches his first two knuckles. “It’s not broken.”

“Now how would you know that?” Preston chides. “Move ‘em for me,” he orders, nodding with satisfaction when Arvin is able to comply. “You be sure to take it easy with this. We don’t need this trip being soured with a visit to the emergency room.”

”Because it’s been such a good time so far,” he grumbles.

“It’s been a delight,” Preston agrees. “Why don’t we get you to the potluck so you can bask in the glow of collective sympathy.”

“I think I’m going to need a drink,” Arvin says, surprising himself. Rightly so, seeing as he’s taken exactly one drink of Preston’s bourbon and declared it nasty enough to spit out on the floor.

“Lucky for you I’m feeling rather generous,” Preston says. He picks himself up off the ground, and offers Arvin a hand once he’s stable. Arvin swoons into him, be it genuine lightheadedness or a ploy, and sneaks a quick kiss before stepping back and righting himself. “If that isn’t enough to satisfy you I could get us lost on one of these scenic backroads. See if we can’t find a little spot to pull off to the side of the road and enjoy a bit of each other’s company.”

Arvin considers the offer carefully, he sees the desire, the worry, the everything in between marching across the boy’s face, and damn it all he looks like he’s fixing to agree until he’s shaking his head. “It’s too risky.”

“But a chaste little cuddle under the tree is acceptable?” he asks, brow raised, but he doesn’t push. Grief is an ugly thing. No one would think twice if he claimed the boy just needed some comfort, which isn’t far from the truth. “C’mon now. We’re going to find ourselves a liquor store. I’ll find you something your delicate tastes can stomach. I think you'll find it helps you relax around all these charming folks."

“Corner store by the house should have something,” Arvin says. His voice is husky, and it sends an inopportune thrill down Preston’s spine. “Can’t guarantee it’ll be any good.”

“Like you know what that is in the first place,” Preston chastises him, giving his cheek a matronly pinch. “Such a young, innocent thing you are, Arvin Russell.”

“You’re an old pervert,” he snaps. Preston's laughter doesn't sit right with him, and he southpaws him in the side. "You're an ass!"

"And here you are smiling anyway," he preens. "Let's get a move on," he says, shoving Arvin towards the front gate. "I haven't gotten to tell you why we're banished from Macon's. It'll help boost your spirits."

"You didn't say we're banished," Arvin says, rubbernecking to gauge Preston's sincerity. "What the hell did you do?"

"I'll tell you in the car," he says. If gossip won't get him to move his hide nothing will.

\---

There's a small gathering out on the lawn, full of people piling food onto plates and bowls from various vessels haphazardly set out on rickety wooden tables. Preston recognizes some of the crowd from the service, and he waves to Arvin's uncle to signal his success in wrangling his unruly nephew.

He tells the boy to get himself freshened up the moment they reach the house. The state of their suits (the dirt, the rumpled edges and untucked shirts) is projecting the image they're late because they went on a romp, which, if Preston had gotten his way… but he doesn't dwell on missed opportunities. He places the church flyer on the kitchen counter and retreats to one of the bedrooms to change into something less disheveled. He can only hope Arvin can work some magic at the bathroom sink.

He lingers inside once he's ready, not willing to write off Arvin's earlier distress as handled just yet. He'd gotten a good laugh about the Macon's misfortune, but there'd been a sadness behind his laughter, and a downward slant of his mouth when he found himself idle for longer than a few seconds.

"Do you have that drink?"

"Here," he gestures to the paper sack on the counter, watching as Arvin turns it over in his hands.

"I didn't know they could do this."

"What? Coffee? You can make just about everything alcoholic these days." There is something so endearing about watching the boy try to fit an entire bottle of coffee liqueur into one of his suit pockets, but only for so long. Preston pulls his flask from his suit coat and gives it a thorough rinse in the sink. He'd nearly left it behind, but some otherworldly tug told him to pack it just in case. "Give me that. You're certainly not going through the entire bottle." He leans over the sink to pour, grimacing at the saccharine, creamy liquid as it taints his flask. But it's a fitting choice for the boy, Mr two sugars in my coffee and straight bourbon is a nasty sin. He offers it up, urging him to, "take a sip, go on. Make sure this wasn't a wasted effort."

Arvin tips it back, sputtering when it comes out faster than he intends, but he swallows, and smacks his lips around a drip before it escapes.

"Why didn't you tell me it could taste good?"

"I think this evening will tell you plenty," he says, giving him a gentle pat on the shoulder. "You pace yourself. Can't have your last impression on this town be you making a damn fool of yourself because of _coffee liqueur_."

"Do I keep it a secret?" He asks. Preston nearly laughs, but the sincerity breaks his heart.

"You'll suss out the proper times. I'd steer clear mid-conversation." Arvin nods, and slides the flask into his pocket. "I'm sure you'll do fine."

-

Several people give Preston the bare minimum of attention, politely inquiring just why he's there and the moment they learn of his occupation, and tenuous connection to the dearly departed, they find a way to end the conversation without causing offence. And sometimes they don’t bother with that, though he’s in no position to complain. For once the crowd is not his to entertain, and he finds himself rather content with blending in with the background.

He partakes of several dishes and sips at some sun tea, casting sidelong glances towards Arvin to gauge his level of inebriation. Offerings to Preston are a mere courtesy; these people have known Arvin since his youth, and the familial way they foist their food upon him prevents the boy from sneaking off to drink for the first hour of the potluck.

But even a young man’s appetite is finite, and the minute he successfully convinces the congregation he’s had his fill the liquor begins to flow, and not just his coffee and sugar dessert drink. A few members, gentlemen that must remember the hip-high boy from long ago, offer him a beer, and then another when he doesn’t refuse the first.

Arvin’s posture softens, becoming open and inviting, and Preston sits back on the porch with an ancient gentleman more interested in smoking his pipe than having an actual conversation. Preston watches with amusement as a pair of young ladies approach Arvin, hands over their mouths as they giggle at some sort of comment he’s made to one of the others drinking around him. He’s seen this a hundred times before, and settles in to watch.

It occurs to him that Arvin has never refused any offers while under the influence. It also occurs to him that Arvin, to his knowledge, has been drunk exactly once in his life. There’s no uneasy, uncomfortable squirming as he listens to their questions. He smiles and nods, and at one point goes as far as scanning the crowd until he locks eyes with Preston. Now his smile softens. _Now_ he looks calm and content. Preston raises a brow and tips his chin towards the house, and whatever graceless thing Arvin says to the girls is enough to keep them from following along as well. Preston doesn’t linger on the porch long enough to see their expressions when they turn to watch Arvin go.

He goes to the kitchen and turns on the tap, running it until it’s cool, and he’s still filling the glass when Arvin comes stumbling inside.

“Hi,” he exclaims, bounding over to lean against the counter by the sink. “Hey, Preston.”

“Mr Russell,” he replies, “I have something for you.”

“Oh, thanks,” he grins, accepting the glass and taking a drink. “Huh, what’s in this?”

“Water,” Preston says. Arvin’s mouth drops open with surprise. “You’re going to drink all of that. And when you’re done you’ll have another.”

“But I feel good,” Arvin whines. “Did you know beer tastes good? Probably not. You’re always drinking all that fancy, expensive shit.”

“Boy,” he shakes his head, “I’m going to insist you trust me when I tell you if you keep drinking it’ll only get worse from here. Why don’t you be good for me,” he murmurs, drawing his hand over Arvin’s suit coat, distracting him long enough to fish the flask out of his pocket and tuck it away in his own. “What did you say to those girls, hm? Just how did you spurn their advances this time?”

“Said I got somebody back home,” he breathes. “Someone special.”

“That right?” he croons, tipping the glass up to get Arvin to drink. “Still so careful. I don’t know why I ever worried.”

“You worry about me?”

“Always,” Preston admits. “It’s that thick skull of yours. Can’t tell if any useful information is ever getting through.”

“It goes in through the ears,” Arvin snorts.

“Course it does,” Preston coos. Again, he tips up the glass, and again Arvin seems to remember he’s holding it and takes a drink. “Now, I’m not going to stop you from chatting with these people, but do me a favor and refuse any further libations for the evening. Claim your inexperience. Hell, claim your stomach’s feeling a bit queasy. Even if it isn’t now, it certainly will soon if you keep this up.”

“Will you kiss me?”

Preston groans, at war with his unsated desires and the very real fear of being run out of town if they’re caught. “I remember giving you numerous opportunities prior to this one. Seems a tad inopportune, suggesting such a thing in the middle of a party.”

“I was sad before,” Arvin says, pouting.

“I dare say you’re sad now,” Preston says, slinging an arm over Arvin’s shoulders and guiding him towards the front door. “Why don’t you entertain a little longer. We’ll put a pin in it for now. I’ll have you all to myself in due time.”

-

“Did you have a nice night?” Preston teases, pressing his nose against Arvin’s temple as he helps the boy to his childhood bedroom. He listens to Preston’s suggestion to stop drinking for about an hour, he even finishes his water without complaint, but he’s forgotten his promise and found a beer in his hands shortly after his water glass vanishes.

“Yeah, yeahyeahyeah…” Arvin trails off into nonsense, giggling the whole way until Preston pours him into bed. “Yeah,” he sighs. “Hi.”

“What a lush you are,” Preston hums, petting Arvin’s sweaty hair. “If I’d known I’d have started teaching you to hold your liquor months ago.”

“I held it fine,” Arvin insists. Such a hollow claim when he can barely keep his eyes open. “‘M not a baby.”

“You’re worse,” Preston proclaims. “Why, at least an infant will bend to my will. You’re fighting me at every turn.”

“They’re gone,” he insists, tugging at Preston’s collar. “C’mon, Preston, you said you’d kiss me.”

“I said no such thing,” he chides, but he gives him a little kiss on the cheek. “There now. I’ve held up my part of the bargain.”

“No,” Arvin whines. “I was good.”

“Lies,” Preston scoffs. “I saw you imbibing, and ignoring my cries to dial it back and drink _water_.”

“You like when I’m bad,” he says, and oh, if he isn’t plucking some very particular strings. Preston ignores him, and unceremoniously tugs off Arvin’s shoes and tosses them at the ground by the foot of the bed. “See? You’re already undressing me.”

“To put you to bed,” Preston insists. ”I think you’ve made enough of a ruckus for one night.”

“Please?” Arvin pouts, arms outstretched, reaching for him, and Preston can’t seem to resist giving the boy a taste of what he wants. He kisses him, cupping his cheek with his hand, and he urges the boy down until he’s flat on his back. Arvin looks very pleased with himself until Preston tugs the covers up and over his legs, and then he’s a petulant child, pouting up at Preston for tricking him in such a way.

“We’ll be home tomorrow,” he says, soothing Arvin’s hurt feelings with soft words and softer touches. “And when we’re there you’ll thank me for my restraint. Physically and otherwise,” he smirks, kissing away that pouting lip. “We’ll put all this behind us in due time.”

Arvin snags Preston’s collar before he can escape, and pulls him down until he’s bent over at an odd angle. Arms encircle his shoulders, and Arvin rubs his flushed face against his chest. He mumbles something there, a sweet little endearment Preston files away for later.

“You sleep now,” he whispers, peeling Arvin off him and coaxing him to lie back. “And when all this alcohol catches up with you I’ll be down the hall to nurse your sorry hide back to health. Just be sure to make it to the toilet before you empty your stomach of all those generous offerings.”

“‘M not gonna puke,” he mumbles. He manages one last burst of energy, a single finger hooked around one of Preston’s belt loops. “Preston, I -”

“I think you’re about to say something you can't unsay,” he says, tucking Arvin's hand back under the covers. “Why don’t you get some sleep. Make sure your opinion hasn’t changed before you go making any drunken declarations.”

Arvin sighs, and he blinks those wide, wet eyes a few times before letting them close. Preston stays a while, ensuring Arvin’s truly dropped into unconsciousness before he leaves the room.

He exits, intending to get Arvin a glass of water before retiring to his borrowed bed for the evening, but he’s stopped by the presence of Arvin’s uncle at the kitchen table. They size each other up as Preston approaches the sink and refills Arvin’s glass.

“My nephew seems to think the world of you,” he says.

“Whatever conversation you think you want to have isn’t going to happen,” Preston says, giving the knob a sharp twist when the glass is full. “In fact, I would hazard this may be the only conversation the two of us ever have, period. I’d prefer if we ended it on better terms, so any sort of accusatorial statements from you won’t sit well with me, and they certainly won’t sit well with Arvin.”

“I’ve seen your type,” he says, giving Preston a onceover, twice over, hell, he’s really searching for that special sort of something. “Big city. Fancy clothes. Nice car. You’re a man of excess. Boy’s going to get a sense of entitlement working for you.”

Well this is… Preston isn't sure how to proceed here. He rubs a hand over his mouth, perplexed as to why Arvin’s uncle’s concern is the boy being a spoiled brat and not, well, a homosexual in some sort of relationship with a man nearly twice his age. Selective blindness, a blessing and a curse.

“You see me as some sort of temptor,” Preston says cautiously. “Some flaunter of the finer things. I’ll remind you that I am a pastor. I’ll remind you that underneath this well dressed frame is a man of the Lord. I may partake in earthly delights now and again, same as any other person, but I strive to steer those in my company on a righteous path.” He taps his fingers against the glass, filling the uncomfortable silence with the tink-tink of his nails against the side. "He doesn't seek excess. He's charitable, and I assume my praises are to be sung to a woman I never got the fortune to meet."

"You might've if he'd come home like he should have."

_He did_ , Preston thinks. Again and again, he returns to the little parsonage and calls it his own. "He didn't feel it was right after what he did."

"What he did," his uncle mutters. "He killed a man."

"That he did," Preston agrees. "He intervened while I stood by, in the process of being beaten to death by a man that killed a child. I won't sit here and condone his method, but I cannot argue he had any other options presented to him. Arvin is strong, but slight. He could have never taken the man in an even match."

"He saved my life," he continues. “I firmly believe the Lord guided his actions that night even if that's difficult for you to stomach. Not everything on the Lord's path is easy, and we're not meant to question His way. And I don't want you chastising him about his deed. His actions are guilt-driven enough as it is.”

"I can't imagine what he sees in you that's worth his loyalty."

Preston smirks at the thought of just how dangerously close Arvin came to telling Preston exactly what he sees in him. "You seem to be upset over conflicting ideas. Worrying the boy is living in excess, yet he sends you part of his pay. Condemning his decision to stay away while also casting judgement on the very act he sights as his reason. Believe it or not, sir, the choices he makes are his own, and it's plain to see he doesn't make them lightly. I think you might want to consider his point of view before you go claiming yours is superior. Trust me when I say he considers yours."

"Hm." Arvin's uncle steeples his fingers. “Maybe it’s best if the two of you stay away from Coal Creek,” he says with finality.

“A sentiment we can agree upon,” he sighs. Preston grabs the flyer from the church, still sitting on the counter where he left it, and slaps it down in front of Arvin’s uncle. “The boy was telling me you needed a place to send some furniture, and I happened to notice a family from your sister’s congregation had a house fire. I’m sure they’d appreciate a bit of charity, and from what I understand she was the charitable type.”

He walks away after that, settling on never speaking with the man again. There's a pause in the man’s breathing, a hint of a suggestion he may have more to say, but Preston retreats to Arvin's bedroom to drop off the water, and then to his own to wait out the final night he has to spend in this place.

\---

Preston finds himself with an invalid of a bedmate sometime in the predawn hours. He coddles the poor fool, having heard him empty his stomach contents across the hall. He may have witnessed the first and last time Arvin Russell ever partakes in alcohol and this miserable little cuddlebug may never again grace his presence, so he feels justified in the indulgence. He's rallied by morning, but turns a bit green at the suggestion they work their way through some of the leftovers.

He doesn't witness the men's parting words, nor does he want to, and he doesn’t miss much. Arvin joins him at the car not a minute after informing him of his intentions to say his goodbyes, looking thoughtful and subdued.

"Are we free to go?" he teases.

"He gave me back some of the money I sent them," he says, face screwing up with confusion. "Why would he do that?"

"We all have our reasons for things," he says. "Put it out of your mind. If you have no use for it I'm sure we can find a charity or two. I bet your grandmother's name would look rather nice on a plaque somewhere."

"A school," Arvin says immediately.

"Got a nice ring to it," Preston muses. "Her angel is looking down at you with pride."

He studies Arvin’s blank expression, but it betrays nothing about what he’s thinking or why they haven’t left yet.

"Arvin," he whispers, nudging the toe of his shoe against the boy's shin. Arvin shakes his head to clear it and gives Preston his partial attention. "There you are. I think it's about time we left, don't you?"

"Can I drive? I think I could use the distraction."

"As long as it doesn't go the other way around," Preston warns. Arvin nods, and Preston hands over the keys. He has a devilish urge to look over his shoulder and see if they have an audience, but he resists the temptation, and they're pulling out of the drive before the impulse returns.

-

Arvin deviates from the most direct route home almost immediately with a deliberate turn onto a northbound country road. Preston raises a brow, but Arvin is focused on the road in front of him. "Call me crazy, but I get the feeling we aren't going home just yet."

"You aren't crazy," Arvin says. "At least not for that."

"You wound me," he deadpans. He leans over the center console, interest peaked. "Just where are we going then?"

"You'll see."

Preston doesn't need to see. He's picturing it now; a secluded wood, maybe one the boy used to frequent in his youth. Or perhaps a clearing with some picturesque scenes by a babbling brook. If Arvin wasn't in such a state this morning he'd have dealt with this need then, but he was and they didn't, and it's seeing his nerves alight to think they're mere minutes away from satiation rather than a few hours.

In his heightened awareness of self he misses the name of the town Arvin enters, and it continues to evade him as they drive through the town proper and onto some rocky dirt roads leading to the outskirts.

"If you were anyone else," he says, "I'd think my time has finally come. Planning on burying me out in the woods?"

"I grew up here," is all he says.

The house is small, but there’s a certain charm from being nestled away under the protective cover of the trees. But there’s also an uneasiness hovering around the periphery, which is amplified by the tense set of Arvin’s jaw. He stops the car near the house, near enough to irritate any current residents.

“I get the feeling we’re trespassing.”

“No one’s bought it since I left,” he says with confidence. Preston believes him, if only because of the overgrown grass in what would only be called a lawn if he was feeling generous. And the lack of any sort of rifle being shoved in their faces. “This way,” he gestures to a path off to the side of the house.

It’s quiet, unnervingly so, and Preston keeps their distance to a minimum. Everyone keeps telling him he shouldn’t expect any sort of intervention a second time, but he’ll take his chances. Arvin is a basket he's more than willing to toss all his eggs into.

"What is this place?"

"My father had some odd beliefs," Arvin pauses, holding out a hand to keep Preston from advancing. "I don't want you getting scared. You don't have to come, really."

"You've got me curious," Preston admits. "Don't you worry about me. Whatever it is you're needing to do out here is obviously important."

"It is."

"Well then let's get to it," he says. Though any confidence he feels in the moment seeps out of him the moment they reach the little clearing. He's no expert of the fringe religious groups but he can spot a sacrificial shrine when he sees one. "What in the _hell_."

"Please," Arvin grabs his wrist, "I just want to bury him."

"Bury _who_ exactly?" Preston shouts, snapping his wrist free.

"Jake, my dog," he says, and boy if he was any less invested in Arvin he'd be halfway back to Coal Creek to foist him on his uncle. "I just want to bury him. Please? You don't need to help. I can do it all. He was a good dog. He doesn't deserve this."

"I," Preston sighs, running a hand up into his hair. "I am _not_ touching anything," he says, "but I suppose I can help dig."

No words are said. If he was feeling playful Preston would offer up his expertise and say a few parting words, but he can only stare at the hole he helped dig as Arvin carefully lays his dog to rest. It's little more than bone, having been here for the better part of the boy's life, but Arvin's posture is much improved after he gives him a proper burial.

Arvin stands before the freshly packed earth, murmuring a few things to himself in vigil for a lost friend. No tears are shed, he's almost smiling, recalling this or that from his troubled childhood. Eventually he steps back, nodding to Preston before making his way back to the car.

"This has been the strangest mood killer," Preston comments earning himself a sputtering laugh. "Am I wrong?"

"The hell, Preston!" Arvin shrieks. "Is that what you thought this was?"

"What was I supposed to think!?" He boggles at him, focusing on the manic grin on his stupid face. "I thought you were being impatient! Not once during the whole drive did you think to mention this was some sort of vigil out in your daddy's sacrificial altar!" He wipes his brow with his sleeve, grimacing at the grime on his white cuff. "You had a hell of a childhood, do you realize that?"

"Yeah," Arvin ducks his head, "I know. My momma, she got cancer. Doctors couldn't save her, and he couldn't stand the thought of losing her. War did something to him, I think. Something he couldn't run from."

"It was something," Preston mutters. The whole place is cursed. "You know full well you could have told me the truth."

"I didn't want to scare you."

"You don't scare me," he says softly. "You are the reason I'm starting to find gray hairs, but I'd chock that up to stress. For example, I saw those hands of yours handle a dead animal not five minutes ago. Just when do you plan to wash them?"

"There's no running water," he says. "Just a well."

"I'm sure it hasn't succumbed to pollution if no one's been here for a decade. C'mon now, wash up. You aren't going anywhere near me or the car until you do."

They find a half rotten bucket by the side of the well, and by the grace of God it doesn't fall apart. He half expects some sort of creature to come up with the water, but it's clear and cool, and his hands feel marginally less foul after the rinse.

"I feel better," Arvin says out of the blue. They're halfway back to the car, still on that eerie path to a patch of hell on earth, but there's something about leaving the place that eases Preston's nerves. "It's like a weight's been lifted from my shoulders."

"You have the guilty conscience of a child," Preston declares, "but while we're easing guilt and striving for the betterment of ourselves, let me say my piece. I'm putting a stop to my influences." He pauses. "At least for a while, until the town can relearn the difference between a little embarrassment and a felony."

Arvin laughs, and gives him a playful shove. "I've been saying I didn't like it for months now."

"Another example of you being smarter than you look." He surveys the front of the house once they arrive, scanning the little intricacies of the intimate space. "I'd say the place is cute if God hadn't forsaken it in its entirety."

Arvin's chuffs. "It wasn't all bad. Parts were good."

"The dog, I'm assuming."

"Mmhm."

"Would it," he scoffs, laughing at himself. "Now don't you get angry with me for asking this," Preston warns, pressing on when he's only met with confusion, "have you considered dogs?"

"Considered them?"

"Another one. Owning another one. You strike me as someone who would benefit from some sort of high energy creature demanding your attention. I might get a moment's peace."

Arvin smiles, and leans into Preston until he has no choice but to initiate a hug or allow them to be sent sprawling in the dirt. "Thank you," he squeezes him tighter, "just, thank you."

"No need to get dramatic," he chides, and holds Arvin at arm's length. "And if you think I'll do a damn thing for it you are sorely mistaken."

"Sure," Arvin chuckles. He sighs, truly, finally sounding content. "I love you."

"Do you now," he grins. "Isn't that something."

"Preston!" he sputters.

"Shh sh sh," he holds a finger to Arvin's lips. "Let me bask in this for a second."

"I just told you I love you!" he laughs, but he's about to strangle Preston if he isn't careful. "You're not gonna say anything?"

"Love is a fickle thing, Arvin," he teases. He kisses him, if only to avoid getting punched in the stomach. "Love,” he nods. “I suppose it may be accurate."


End file.
